THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Ada  Nisbet 

ENGLISH  READING  ROOM 


JUL  17  1986 


V 


PAUL  CLIFFORD. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD 


BY 


EDWARD  BULWERJLYTTON 
(LORD  LYTTON) 


NEW   YORK 

THE  CASSELL   PUBLISHING  CO. 
31  EAST  I;TH  ST.  (UNION  SQUARE) 


THE  MERSHON  COMPANY  PRESS, 
RAHWAV,  N.  ». 


TO 


ALBANY     FONBLANQUE 


WHOSE   ACUTENESS    OF   WIT    IS    ACKNOWLEDGED    BY    THOSE    WHO    OPPOSE 
HIS    OPINIONS, — 


WHOSE   INTEGRITY    OF    PURPOSE    IS   YET   MORE   RESPECTED    BY    THOSE 
WHO    APPRECIATE     HIS    FRIENDSHIP, — 


THIS    WORK     IS    INSCRIBED. 


July,   1840. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1840. 


THIS  Novel  so  far  differs  from  the  other  fictions  by  the  same  author,  that 
it  seeks  to  draw  its  interest  rather  from  practical  than  ideal  sources.  Out  of 
some  twelve  Novels  or  Romances,  embracing,  however  inadequately,  a  great 
variety  of  scene  and  character, — from  "  Pelham  "  to  the  "  Pilgrims  of  the 
Rhine," — from  "  Rienzi "  to  the  "  Last  Days  of  Pompeii," — "Paul  Clifford" 
is  the  only  one  in  which  a  robber  has  been  made  the  hero,  or  the  peculiar 
phases  of  life  which  he  illustrates  have  been  brought  into  any  prominent 
description. 

Without  pausing  to  inquire  what  realm  of  manners,  or  what  order  of  crime 
and  sorrow  are  open  to  art,  and  capable  of  administering  to  the  proper  ends 
of  fiction,  I  may  be  permitted  to  observe,  that  the  present  subject  was 
selected,  and  the  Novel  written,  with  a  twofold  object : 

First,  to  draw  attention  to  two  errors  in  our  penal  institutions,  viz.,  a  ! 
vicious  Prison-discipline  aud  a  sanguinary  Criminal  Code — the  habit  of  cor- 
rupting the  boy  by  the  very  punishment  that  ought  to  redeem  him,  and  then 
hanging  the  man,  at  the  first  occasion,  as  the  easiest  way  of  getting  rid  of 
our  own  blunders.  Between  the  example  of  crime  which  the  tyro  learns  from 
the  felons  in  the  prison-yard,  and  the  horrible  levity  with  which  the  mob 
gather  round  the  drop  at  Newgate,  there  is  a  connection  which  a  writer  miy 
be  pardoned  for  quitting  loftier  regions  of  imagination  to  trace  and  to  detect. 
So  far  this  book  is  less  a  picture  of  the  king's  highway  than  the  law's  royal 
road  to  the  gallows — a  satire  on  the  short  cut  established  between  the  House 
of  Correction  and  the  Condemned  Cell.  A  second  and  a  lighter  object  in  the 
novel  of  "  Paul  Clifford  "  (and  hence  the  introduction  of  a  semi-burlesque  or 
travesty  in  the  earlier  chapters)  was  to  show  that  there  is  nothing  essentially 
different  between  vulgar  vice  and  fashionable  vice — and  that  the  slang  of  the 
one  circle  is  but  an  easy  paraphrase  of  the  cant  of  the  other. 

The  Supplementary  Essays  entitled  "  Tomlinsoniana,"  which  contains  the 
corollaries  to  various  problems  suggested  in  the  Novel,  have  been  restored  to 
the  present  edition. 

CLIFTON, 

July  25,  1840. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1848. 


MOST  men,  who,  with  some  earnestness  of  mind,  examine  into  the  mys- 
teries of  our  social  state — will,  perhaps,  pass  through  that  stage  of  self-edu- 
cation in  which  this  Novel  was  composed.  The  contrast  between  conven- 
tional frauds,  received  as  component  parts  of  the  great  system  of  civilization, 
and  the  less  deceptive  invasions  of  the  laws  which  discriminate  the  meum 
from  the  tuum,  is  tempting  to  a  satire  that  is  not  without  its  justice.  The 
tragic  truths  which  lie  hid,  in  what  I  may  call  the  Philosophy  of  Circum- 
stance— strike  through  our  philanthropy  upon  our  imagination.  We  see 
masses  of  our  fellow-creatures — the  victims  of  circumstances  over  which  they 
had  no  control — contaminated  in  infancy  by  the  example  of  parents — their 
intelligence  either  extinguished,  or  turned  against  them,  according  as  the 
conscience  is  stifled  in  ignorance,  or  perverted  to  apologies  for  vice.  A  child 
who  is  cradled  in  ignominy  ;  whose  schoolmaster  is  the  felon  ;  whose 
academy  is  the  House  of  Correction  ;  who  breathes  an  atmosphere  in  which 
virtue  is  poisoned,  to  which  religion  (V->es  not  pierce — becomes  less  a  respon- 
sible and  reasoning  human  being  than  a  wild  beast  which  we  suffer  to  range 
in  the  wilderness — till  it  prowls  near  our  homes,  and  we  kill  it  in  self-defence. 

In  this  respect,  the  Novel  of  "Paul  Clifford  "  is  a  loud  cry  to  society  to 
amend  the  circumstance — to  redeem  the  victim.  It  is  an  appeal  from 
Humanity  to  Law.  And,  in  this,  if  it  could  not  pretend  to  influence,  or 
guide  the  temper  of  the  times,  it  was  at  least  a  foresign  of  a  coming  change. 
Between  the  literature  of  imagination,  and  the  practical  interests  of  a  people, 
there  is  a  harmony  as  complete  as  it  is  mysterious.  The  heart  of  an  author 
is  the  mirror  of  his  age.  The  shadow  of  the  sun  is  cast  on  the  still  surface 
of  literature,  long  before  the  light  penetrates  to  law.  But  it  is  ever  from  the 
sun  that  the  shadow  falls,  and  the  moment  we  see  the  shadow,  we  may  be 
certain  of  the  light. 

Since  this  work  was  written,  society  is  busy  with  the  evils  in  which  it  was 
then  silently  acquiescent.  The  true  movement  of  the  last  fifteen  years  has 
been  the  progress  of  one  idea — Social  Reform.  There,  it  advances  with 
steady  and  noiseless  march  behind  every  louder  question  of  constitutional 
change.  Let  us  do  justice  to  our  time.  There  have  been  periods  of  more 
brilliant  action  on  the  drstinies  of  States — but  there  is  no  time  visible  in  His- 
tory in  which  there  was  so  earnest  and  general  a  desire  to  improve  the  condi- 
tion of  the  great  body  of  the  people.  In  every  circle  of  the  community  that 
healthful  desire  is  astir  ;  it  unites  in  one  object  men  of  parties  the  most  op- 
posed— it  affords  the  most  attractive  nucleus  for  public  meetings;  it  has 
cleansed  the  statute-book  from  blood  ;  it  is  ridding  the  world  of  t'-.e  hang- 
man. It  animates  the  clergy  of  all  sects  in  the  remotest  districts  ;  it  sets  the 
squire  on  improving  cottages  and  parcelling  out  allotments.  Schools  rise  in 
every  village  ;  in  books  the  lightest,  the  Grand  Idea  colors  the  page,  and  be- 
queathes  the  moral.  .The  Government  alone  (despite  the  professions  on  which 
the  present  Ministry  was  founded)  remains  unpenetrated  hy  the  common 
genius  of  the  age.  But  on  that  question,  with  all  the  subtleties  it  involves, 
and  the  experiments  it  demands — (not  indeed  according  to  the  dreams  of  an 

vii 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

insane  philosophy,  but  according  to  the  immutable  iaws  which  proportion  the 
rewards  of  labor  to  the  respect  for  property) — a  Government  must  be  formed 
at  last. 

There  is  in  this  work  a  subtler  question  suggested,  but  not  solved.  That 
question  which  perplexes  us  in  the  generous  ardor  of  our  early  youth — 
which,  unsatisfactory  as  all  metaphysics,  we  rather  escape  from  than  decide 
as  we  advance  in  years,  viz. —  make  what  laws  we  please,  the  man  who  lives 
within  the  pale  can  be  as  bad  as  the  man  without.  Compare  the  Paul  Clif- 
ford of  the  fiction  with  the  William  Brandon  ;  the  hunted  son  and  the  hon- 
ored father;  the  outcast  of  the  law,  the  dispenser  of  the  law — the  felon,  and 
the  judge  ;  and  as,  at  the  last,  they  front  each  other,  one  on  the  seat  of  jus- 
tice, the  other  at  the  convict's  bar,  who  can  lay  his  hand  on  his  heart  and 
say,  that  the  Paul  Clifford  is  a  worse  man  than  the  William  Brandon  ? 

There  is  no  immorality  in  a  truth  that  enforces  this  question  ;  for  it  is  pre- 
cisely those  offences  which  society  cannot  interfere  with,  that  society  re- 
quires fiction  to  expose.  Society  is  right,  though  youth  is  reluctant  to 
acknowledge  it.  Society  can  form  only  certain  regulations  necessary  for  its 
self-defence — the  fewer  the  better — punish  those  who  invade,  leave  unques- 
tioned those  who  respect  them.  But  fiction  follows  truth  into  all  the  strong- 
holds of  convention  ;  strikes  through  the  disguise,  lifts  the  mask,  bares  the 
heart,  and  leaves  a  moral  wherever  it  brands  a  falsehood. 

Out  of  this  range  of  ideas,  the  mind  of  the  Author  has,  perhaps,  emerged 
into  an  atmosphere  which  he  believes  to  be  more  congenial  to  Art.  But  he 
can  no  more  regret  that  he  has  parsed  through  it,  than  he  can  regret  that 
while  he  dwelt  there,  his  heart,  like  his  years,  was  young.  Sympathy  with 
the  suffering  that  seems  most  actual — indignation  at  the  frauds  which  seem 
most  received  as  virtues — are  the  natural  emotions  of  youth,  if  earnest. 
More  sensible  afterwards  of  the  prerogatives,  as  of  the  elements,  of  Art,  the 
author  at  least  seeks  to  escape  where  the  man  may  not,  and  look  on  the  prac- 
tical world  through  the  serener  one  of  the  ideal. 

With  the  completion  of  this  work  closed  an  era  in  the  writer's  self-educa- 
tion. From  "  Pclham  "  to  "  Paul  Clifford"  (four  fictions,  all  written  at  a 
very  early  age),  the  author  rather  observes  than  imagines;  rather  deals  with 
the  ordinary  surface  of  human  life,  than  attempts,  however  humbly,  to  soar 
above  it  or  to  dive  beneath.  From  depicting  in  "  Paul  Clifford  "  the  errors 
of  society,  it  was  almost  the  natural  progress  of  reflection  to  pass  to  those 
which  swell  to  crime  in  the  solitary  human  heart, — from  the  bold  and  open 
evils  that  spring  from  ignorance  and  example,  to  track  those  that  lie  coiled 
in  the  entanglements  of  refining  knowledge  and  speculative  pride.  Looking 
back  at  this  distance  of  years,  I  can  see,  as  clearly  as  if  mapped  before  me, 
the  paths  which  led  across  the  boundary  of  invention  from  "  Paul  Clifford  " 
to  "  Eugene  Aram."  And,  that  last  work  done,  no  less  clearly  can  I  see 
where  the  first  gleams  from  a  fairer  fancy  broke  upon  my  way,  and  rested  on 
those  more  ideal  images,  which  I  sought,  with  a  feeble  hand,  to  transfer  to 
the  "  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine/'and  the  "Last  Days  of  Pompeii."  We  authors, 
like  the  Children  in  the  Fable,  track  our  journey  through  the  maze  by  the 
pebbles  which  we  strew  along  the  path.  From  others  who  wander  after  us, 
they  may  attract  no  notice,  or,  if  noticed,  seem  to  them  but  scattered  by  the 
caprice  of  chance.  But  we,  when  our  memory  would  retrace  our  steps,  re- 
view, in  the  humble  stones,  the  witnesses  of  our  progress — the  landmarks  of 
our  way. 

KNEBWORTH, 
184$. 


PAUL  CLIFFORD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Say,  ye  opprest  by  some  fantastic  woes, 
Some  jarring  nerve  that  baffles  your  repose, 
Who  press  the  downy  couch  while  slaves  advance 
With  timid  eye  to  read  the  distant  glance  ; 
Who  with  sad  prayers  the  weary  doctor  tease 
To  name  the  nameless  ever-new  disease  ; 
Who  with  mock  patience  dire  complaints  endure, 
Which  real  pain  and  that  alone  can  cure  : 
How  would  you  bear  in  real  pain  to  lie 
Despised,  neglected,  left  alone  to  die? 
How  would  ye  bear  to  draw  your  latest  breath 
Where  all  that's  wretched  paves  the  way  to  death  ?  " 

CRABBE. 

IT  was  a  dark  and  stormy  night;  the  rain  fell  in  torrents 
except  at  occasional  intervals,  when  it  was  checked  by  a  vio- 
lent gust  of  wind  which  swept  up  the  streets  (for  it  is  in  London 
that  our  scene  lies),  rattling  along  the  house-tops,  and  fiercely 
agitating  the  scanty  flame  of  the  lamps  that  struggled  against 
the  darkness.  Through  one  of  the  obscurest  quarters  of  Lon- 
don, and  among  haunts  little  loved  by  the  gentlemen  of  the 
police,  a  man,  evidently  of  the  lowest  orders,  was  wending  his 
solitary  way.  He  stopped  twice  or  thrice  at  different  shops  and 
houses  of  a  description  correspondent  with  the  appearance  of 
the  quartier  in  which  they  were  situated,  and  tended  inquiry 
for  some  article  or  another  which  did  not  seem  easily  to  be 
met  with.  All  the  answers  he  received  were  couched  in  the 
negative ;  and  as  he  turned  from  each  door  he  muttered  to  him- 
self, in  no  very  elegant  phraseology,  his  disappointment  and 
discontent.  At  length,  at  one  house,  the  landlord,  a  sturdy 
butcher,  after  rendering  the  same  reply  the  inquirer  had  hith- 
erto received,  added,  "But  if  this  vill  do  as  veil,  Dummie,  it  is 
quite  at  your  sarvice!"  Pausing  reflectively  fora  moment, 
Dummie  responded,  that  he  thought  the  thing  proffered  might 

n 


12  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

do  as  well ;  and  thrusting  it  into  his  ample  pocket  he  strode 
away  with  as  rapid  a  motion  as  the  wind  and  the  rain  would 
allow.  He  soon  came  to  a  nest  of  low  and  dingy  buildings,  at 
the  entrance  to  which,  in  half-effaced  characters,  was  written 
"Thames  Court."  Halting  at  the  most  conspicuous  of  these 
buildings,  an  inn  or  alehouse,  through  the  half-closed  windows 
of  which  blazed  out  in  ruddy  comfort  the  beams  of  the  hospit- 
able hearth,  he  knocked  hastily  at  the  door.  He  was  admitted 
by  a  lady  of  a  certain  age,  and  endowed  with  a  comely  rotun- 
dity of  face  and  person. 

"Hast  got  it,  Dummie?"  said  she  quickly,  as  she  closed  the 
door  on  the  guest. 

"Noa,  noa!  not  exactly,  but  I  thinks  as  ow — " 

"Pish,  you  fool!'  cried  the  old  woman,  interrupting  him 
peevishly.  "Vy,  it  is  no  use  desaving  me.  You  knows  you 
has  only  stepped  from  my  boosing  ken  to  another,  and  you  has 
not  been  arter  the  book  at  all.  So  there's  the  poor  cretur 
a-raving  and  a-dying,  and  you — " 

"Let  I  speak!  interrupted  Dummie  in  his  turn.  "I  tells 
you,  I  vent  first  to  Mother  Bussblone's,  who,  I  knows,  chops 
the  whiners  morning  and  evening  to  the  young  ladies,  and  I 
axes  there  for  a  Bible,  and  she  says,  says  she,  'I  'as  only  a 
'Companion  to  the  Walter?'  but  you'll  get  a  Bible,  I  thinks,  at 
Master  Talkins", — the  cobbler,  as  preaches.  So  I  goes  to  Mas- 
ter Talkins,  and  he  says,  says  he,  'I  'as  no  call  for  the  Bible — 
'cause  vy?  I  'as  a  call  vithout ;  but  mayhap  you'll  be  a-get- 
ting  it  at  the  butcher's  hover  the  way, — cause  vy?  the  butcher'll 
be  damned ! '  So  I  goes  hover  the  vay,  and  the  butcher  says, 
says  he,  'I  'as  not  a  Bible;  but  I  'as  a  book  of  plays  bound  for 
all  the  vorld  just  like  'un,  and  mayhap  the  poor  cretur  mayn't 
see  the  difference.'  So  I  takes  the  plays,  Mrs.  Margery,  and 
here  they  be  sure/y/  And  how's  poor  Judy?" 

"Fearsome!   she'll  not  be  over  the  night,  I'm  a-thinking." 

"Veil,  I'll  track  up  the  dancers!" 

So  saying,  Dummie  ascended  a  doorless  staircase,  across  the 
entrance  of  which  a  blanket,  stretched  angularly  from  the  wall 
to  the  chimney,  afforded  a  kind  of  screen ;  and  presently  he 
stood  within  a  chamber,  which  the  dark  and  painful  genius  of 
Crabbe  might  have  delighted  to  portray.  The  walls  were  white- 
washed, and  at  sundry  places  strange  figures  and  grotesque 
characters  had  been  traced  by  some  mirthful  inmate,  in  such 
sable  outline  as  the  end  of  a  smoked  stick  or  the  end  of  a 
piece  of  charcoal  is  wont  to  produce.  The  wan  and  flickering 
light  afforded  by  a  farthing  candle  gave  a  sort  of  grimness  and 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  13 

menace  to  these  achievements  of  pictorial  art,  especially  as  they 
more  than  once  received  embellishment  from  portraits  of  Satan, 
such  as  he  is  accustomed  to  be  drawn.  A  low  fire  burned 
gloomily  in  the  sooty  grate;  and  on  the  hob  hissed  "the  still 
small  voice"  of  an  iron  kettle.  On  a  round  deal  table  were 
two  vials,  a  cracked  cup,  a  broken  spoon  of  some  dull  metal; 
and  upon  two  or  three  mutilated  chairs  were  scattered  various 
articles  of  female  attire.  On  another  table,  placed  below  a 
high,  narrow,  shutterless  casement  (athwart  which,  instead  of  a 
curtain,  a  checked  apron  had  been  loosely  hung,  and  now 
waved  fitfully  to  and  fro  in  the  gusts  of  wind  that  made  easy 
ingress  through  many  a  chink  and  cranny),  were  a  looking- 
glass,  sundry  appliances  of  the  toilet,  a  box  of  course  rouge,  a 
few  ornaments  of  more  show  than  value;  and  a  watch,  the  reg- 
ular and  calm  click  of  which  produced  that  indescribably  pain- 
ful feeling  which,  we  fear,  many  of  our  readers  who  have  heard 
the  sound  in  a  sick  chamber  can  easily  recall.  A  large  tester- 
bed  stood  opposite  to  this  table,  and  the  looking-glass  partially 
reflected  curtains  of  a  faded  stripe,  and  ever  and  anon  (as  the 
position  of  the  sufferer  followed  the  restless  emotion  of  a  disor- 
dered mind),  glimpses  of  the  face  of  one  on  whom  Death  was 
rapidly  hastening.  Beside  this  bed  now  stood  Dummie — a  small, 
thin  man,  dressed  in  a  tattered  plush  jerkin,  from  which  the 
raindrops  slowly  dripped,  and  with  a  thin,  yellow,  cunning 
physiognomy,  grotesquely  hideous  in  feature  but  not  positively 
villainous  in  expression.  On  the  other  side  of  the  bed  stood  a 
little  boy  of  about  three  years  old,  dressed  as  if  belonging  to 
the  better  classes,  although  the  garb  was  somewhat  tattered  and 
discolored.  The  poor  child  trembled  violently,  and  evidently 
looked  with  a  feeling  of  relief  on  the  entrance  of  Dummie. 
And  now  there  slowly,  and  with  many  a  phthisical  sigh,  heaved 
towads  the  foot  of  the  bed  the  heavy  frame  of  the  woman  who 
had  accosted  Dummie  below,  and  had  followed  him,  hand pas- 
sibus  cequis,  to  the  room  of  the  sufferer ;  she  stood  with  a  bottle 
of  medicine  in  her  hand,  shaking  its  contents  up  and  down, 
and  with  a  kindly  yet  timid  compassion  spread  over  a  counte- 
nance crimsoned  with  habitual  libations.  This  made  the  scene; 
save  that  on  a  chair  by  the  bedside  lay  a  profusion  of  long, 
glossy,  golden  ringlets,  which  had  been  cut  from  the  head  of 
the  sufferer  when  the  fever  had  begun  to  mount  upwards ;  but 
which,  with  a  jealousy  that  portrayed  the  darling  littleness  of  a 
vain  heart,  she  had  seized  and  insisted  on  retaining  near  her; 
and  save  that,  by  the  fire,  perfectly  inattentive  to  the  event  about 
to  take  place  within  the  chamber,  and  to  which  we  of  the  biped 


14  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

race  attach  so  awful  an  importance,  lay  a  large  gray  cat,  curled 
in  a  ball,  and  dozing  with  half-shut  eyes,  and  ears  that  now  and 
then  denoted,  by  a  gentle  inflection,  the  jar  of  a  louder  or 
nearer  sound  than  usual  upon  her  lethargic  senses.  The  dying 
woman  did  not  at  first  attend  to  the  entrance  either  of  Dummie 
or  the  female  at  the  foot  of  the  bed ;  but  she  turned  herself 
round  towards  the  child,  and  grasping  his  arm  fiercely,  she  drew 
him  towards  her,  and  gazed  on  his  terrified  features  with  a  look 
in  which  exhaustion  and  an  exceeding  wanness  of  complexion 
were  even  horribly  contrasted  by  the  glare  and  energy  of 
delirium. 

"If  you  are  like  /«;#,"  she  muttered,  "I  will  strangle  you, — 
I  will! — Ay  tremble!  you  ought  to  tremble,  when  your  mother 
touches  you,  or  when  he  is  mentioned.  You  have  his  eyes, — 
you  have!  Out  with  them,  out!  the  devil  sits  laughing  in 
them!  Oh!  you  weep,  do  you,  little  one!  Well  now,  be  still, 
my  love, — be  hushed!  I  would  not  harm  thee!  harm — O  God, 
he  is  my  child  after  all!"  And  at  these  words  she  clasped  the 
boy  passionately  to  her  breast,  and  burst  into  tears! 

"Coom  now,  coom!"  said  Dummie  soothingly.  "Take  the 
stuff,  Judith,  and  then  ve'll  talk  over  the  hurchin!" 

The  mother  relaxed  her  grasp  of  the  boy,  and  turning  towards 
the  speaker,  gazed  at  him  for  some  moments  with  a  bewildered 
stare:  at  length  she  appeared  slowly  to  remember  him,  and 
said,  as  she  raised  herself  on  one  hand,  and  pointed  the  other 
towards  him  with  an  inquiring  gesture: 

"Thou  hast  brought  the  book?" 

Dummie  answered  by  lifting  up  the  book  he  had  brought 
from  the  honest  butcher's. 

"Clear  the  room,  then!"  said  the  sufferer, with  that  air  of  mock 
command  so  common  to  the  insane.  "We  would  be  alone!" 

Dummie  winked  at  the  good  woman  at  the  foot  of  the  bed ; 
and  she  (though  generally  no  easy  person  to  order  or  to  per- 
suade) left,  without  reluctance,  the  sick  chamber. 

"If  she  be  a-going  to  pray!"  murmured  our  landlady  (for  that 
office  did  the  good  matron  hold),  "I  may  indeed  as  well  take 
myself  off,  for  it's  not  werry  comfortable  like  to  those  who  be 
old  to  hear  all  that  "ere!" 

With  this  pious  reflection  the  hostess  of  the  Mug,  so  was  the 
hostelry  called,  heavily  descended  the  creaking  stairs. 

"Now,  man!"  said  the  sufferer  sternly:  "swear  that  you  will 
never  reveal, — swear,  I  say!  and  by  the  great  God,  whose  an- 
gels are  about  this  night,  if  ever  you  break  the  oath,  I  will  come 
back  and  haunt  you  to  your  dying  day!" 


PAUL   CLlFFOfcD.  lg 

Dummie' s  face  grew  pale,  for  he  was  superstitiously  affected  by 
the  vehemence  and  the  language  of  the  dying  woman,  and  he 
answered,  as  he  kissed  the  pretended  Bible,  that  he  swore  to 
keep  the  secret,  as  much  as  he  knew  of  it,  which,  she  must  be 
sensible,  he  said,  was  very  little.  As  he  spoke,  the  wind  swept 
with  a  loud  and  sudden  gust  down  the  chmney,  and  shook  the 
roof  above  them  so  violently  as  to  loosen  many  of  the  crumb- 
ling tiles,  which  fell  one  after  the  other,  with  a  crashing  noise, 
on  the  pavement  below.  Dummie  started  in  affright ;  and  per- 
haps his  conscience  smote  him  for  the  trick  he  had  played  with 
regard  to  the  false  Bible.  But  the  woman,  whose  excited  and 
unstrung  nerves  led  her  astray  fom  one  subject  to  another  with 
preternatural  celerity,  said,  with  an  hysterical  laugh,  "See, 
Dummie,  they  come  in  state  for  me ;  give  me  the  cap — yonder ! 
and  bring  the  looking-glass!" 

Dummie  obeyed,  and  the  woman,  as  she  in  a  low  tone 
uttered  something  about  the  unbecoming  color  of  the  ribands, 
adjusted  the  cap  on  her  head ;  and  then  saying  in  a  regretful 
and  petulant  voice,  "Why  should  they  have  cut  off  my  hair? — 
such  a  disfigurement!"  bade  Dummie  desire  Mrs.  Margery  once 
more  to  ascend  to  her. 

Left  alone  with  her  child,  the  face  of  the  wretched  mother 
softened  as  she  regarded  him,  and  all  the  levities  and  all  the 
vehemences, — if  we  may  use  the  word, — which,  in  the  turbu- 
lent commotion  of  her  delirium,  had  been  stirred  upward  to  the 
surface  of  her  mind,  gradually  now  sunk,  as  death  increased 
upon  her,  and  a  mother's  anxiety  rose  to  the  natural  level  from 
which  it  had  been  disturbed  and  abased.  She  took  the  child 
to  her  bosom,  and  clasping  him  in  her  arms,  which  grew 
weaker  with  every  instant,  she  soothed  him  with  the  sort  of 
chant  which  nurses  sing  over  their  untoward  infants ;  but  her 
voice  was  racked  and  hollow,  and  as  she  felt  it  was  so,  the 
mother's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Mrs.  Margery  now  re-entered; 
and,  turning  towards  the  hostess  with  an  impressive  calmness  of 
manner  which  astonished  and  awed  the  person  she  addressed, 
the  dying  woman  pointed  to  the  child,  and  said : 

"You  have  been  kind  to  me,  very  kind,  and  may  God  bless 
you  for  it!  I  have  found  that  those  whom  the  world  calls  the 
worst  are  often  the  most  human.  But  I  am  not  going  to  thank 
you  as  I  ought  to  do,  but  to  ask  of  you  a  last  and  exceeding 
favor.  Protect  my  child  till  he  grows  up :  you  have  often  said 
you  loved  him — you  are  childless  yourself,  and  a  morsel  of 
bread  and  a  shelter  for  the  night,  which  is  all  I  ask  of  you  to 
give  him,  will  not  impoverish  more  legitimate  claimants!" 


16  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

Poor  Mrs.  Margery,  fairly  sobbing,  vowed  she  would  be  a 
mother  to  the  child,  and  that  she  would  endeavor  to  rear  him 
honestly,  though  a  public-house  was  not,  she  confessed,  the 
best  place  for  good  examples! 

"Take  him!"  cried  the  mother  hoarsely,  as  her  voice,  fail- 
ing her  strength,  rattled  indistinctlv,  and  almost  died  within 
her.  "Take  him, — rear  him  as  you  will,  as  you  can!  any  ex- 
ample, any  roof  better  than — "  Here  the  words  were  inaudible. 
"And  oh!  may  it  be  a  curse,  and  a — Give  me  the  medicine,  I 
am  dying." 

The  hostess,  alarmed,  hastened  to  comply,  but  before  she 
returned  to  the  bedside  the  sufferer  was  insensible,  nor  did  she 
again  recover  speech  or  motion.  A  low  and  rare  moan  only 
testified  continued  life,  and  within  two  hours  that  ceased,  and 
the  spirit  was  gone.  At  that  time  our  good  hostess  was  herself 
beyond  the  things  of  this  outer  world,  having  supported  her 
spirits  during  the  vigils  of  the  night  with  so  many  little  liquid 
stimulants,  that  they  finally  sunk  into  that  torpor  which  generally 
succeeds  excitement.  Taking,  perhaps,  advantage  of  the  op- 
portunity which  the  insensibility  of  the  hostess  afforded  him, 
Dummie,  by  the  expiring  ray  of  the  candle  that  burnt  in  the 
death  chamber,  hastily  opened  a  huge  box  (which  was  generally 
concealed  under  the  bed,  and  contained  the  wardrobe  of  the 
deceased),  and  turned  with  irreverent  hand  over  the  linens  and 
the  silks,  until  quite  at  the  bottom  of  the  trunk  he  discovered 
some  packets  of  letters ;  these  he  seized,  and  buried  in  the  con- 
veniences of  his  dress.  He  then,  rising  and  replacing  the  box, 
cast  a  longing  eye  towards  the  watch  on  the  toilet-table,  which 
was  of  gold ;  but  he  withdrew  his  gaze,  and  with  a  querulous 
sigh,  observed  to  himself,  "The  old  blowen  kenso'  that,  od  rat 
her!  but,  howsomever,  I'll  take  this;  who  knows  but  it  may  be 
of  some  sarvice — tunnies  to-day  may  be  smash  to-morrow !  "* 
and  he  laid  his  coarse  hand  on  the  golden  and  silky  tresses  we 
have  described.  "'Tis  a  rum  business,  and  puzzles  I!  but 
mum's  the  word,  for  my  own  little  colquarren."t 

With  this  brief  soliloquy  Dummie  asscended  the  stairs,  and 
let  himself  out  of  the  house. 

*  Meaning,  what  is  of  no  value  now  may  be  precious  hereafter, 
t  Colquarren — neck. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  17 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 

The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place." 

Deserted  Village. 

THERE  is  little  to  interest  in  a  narrative  of  early  childhood,  un- 
less indeed  one  were  writing  on  education.  We  shall  not, 
therefore,  linger  over  the  infancy  of  the  motherless  boy  left  to 
the  protection  of  Mrs.  Margery  Lobkins,  or,  as  she  was  some- 
times familiarly  called,  Peggy  or  Piggy  Lob.  The  good  dame, 
drawing  a  more  than  sufficient  income  from  the  profits  of  a 
house,  which,  if  situated  in  an  obscure  locality,  enjoyed  very 
general  and  lucrative  repute;  and  being  alone  without  kith  or 
kin,  had  no  temptation  to  break  her  word  to  the  deceased,  and 
she  suffered  the  orphan  to  wax  in  strength  and  understanding 
until  the  age  of  twelve, — a  period  at  which  we  are  about  to 
reintroduce  him  to  our  readers. 

The  boy  evinced  great  hardihood  of  temper,  and  no  inconsid- 
erable quickness  of  intellect.  In  whatever  he  attempted  his 
success  was  rapid,  and  a  remarkable  strength  of  limb  and  mus- 
cle seconded  well  the  dictates  of  an  ambition  turned,  it  must  be 
confessed,  rather  to  physical .  than  mental  exertion.  It  is  not 
to  be  supposed,  however,  that  his  boyish  life  passed  in  unbrok- 
en tranquillity.  Although  Mrs.  Lobkins  was  a  good  woman  on 
the  whole,  and  greatly  attached  to  her  prottg/,  she  was  violent 
and  rude  in  temper,  or,  as  she  herself  more  flatteringly  ex- 
pressed it,  "her  feelings  were  unkimmonly  strong,  "  and  alter- 
nate quarrel  and  reconciliation  constituted  the  chief  occupa- 
tions of  l\\e  protege's  domestic  life.  As,  previous  to  his  becoming 
the  ward  of  Mrs.  Lobkins,  he  had  never  received  any  other  ap- 
pellation than  "the  child,"  so  the  duty  of  christening  him  de- 
volved upon  our  hostess  of  the  Mug;  and,  after  some  delibera- 
tion, she  blessed  him  with  the  name  of  Paul.  It  was  a  name 
of  happy  omen,  for  it  had  belonged  to  good  Mrs.  Lobkins's 
grandfather,  who  had  been  three  times  transported,  and  twice 
hanged  (at  the;  first  occurrence  of  the  latter  description  he  had 
been  restored  by  the  surgeons,  much  to  the  chagrin  of  a  young 
anatomist  who  was  to  have  had  the  honor  of  cutting  him  up). 
The  boy  did  not  seem  likely  to  merit  the  distinguished  appella- 
tion he  bore,  for  he  testified  no  remarakble  predisposition  to 
the  property  of  other  people.  Nay,  although  he  sometimes 
emptied  the  pockets  of  any  stray  visitor  to  the  coffee-room  of 
Mrs.  Lobkins,  it  appeared  an  act  originating  rather  in  a  love 


r  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

of  the  frolic,  than  a  desire  of  the  profit ;  for  after  the  plun- 
dered person  had  been  sufficiently  tormented  by  the  loss,  haply 
of  such  utilities  as  a  tobacco-box,  or  a  handkerchief;  after  he 
had,  to  the  secret  delight  of  Paul,  searched  every  corner  of  the 
apartment,  stamped,  and  fretted,  and  exposed  himself  by  his 
petulance  to  the  bitter  objurgation  of  Mrs.  Lobkins,  our  young 
friend  would  quietly  and  suddenly  contrive  that  the  article 
missed  should  return  of  its  own  accord  to  the  pocket  from  which 
it  had  disappeared.  And  thus,  as  our  readers  have  doubtless 
experienced,  when  they  have  disturbed  the  peace  of  a  whole 
household  for  the  loss  of  some  portable  treasure  which  they 
themselves  are  afterwards  discovered  to  have  mislaid,  the  unfor- 
tunate victim  of  Paul's  honest  ingenuity,  exposed  to  the  col- 
lected indignation  of  the  spectators,  and  sinking  from  the  ac- 
cuser into  the  convicted,  secretly  cursed  the  unhappy  lot 
which  not  only  vexed  him  with  the  loss  of  his  property,  but 
made  it  still  more  annoying  to  recover  it. 

Whether  it  was  that,  on  discovering  these  pranks,  Mrs.  Lob- 
kins  trembled  for  the  future  bias  of  the  address  they  displayed, 
or  whether  she  thought  that  the  folly  of  thieving  without  gain 
required  speedy  and  permanent  correction,  we  cannot  decide ; 
but  the  good  lady  became  at  last  extremely  anxious  to  secure  for 
Paul  the  blessings  of  a  liberal  education.  The  key  of  knowledge 
(the  art  of  reading)  she  had,  indeed,  two  years  prior  to  the  present 
date  obtained  for  him,  but  this  far  from  satisfied  her  conscience : 
nay,  she  felt  that,  if  she  could  not  also  obtain  for  him  the  dis- 
cretion to  use  it,  it  would  have  been  wise  even  to  have  with- 
held a  key  which  the  boy  seemed  perversely  to  apply  to  all  locks 
but  the  right  one.  In  a  word,  she  was  desirous  that  he  should 
receive  an  education  far  superior  to  those  whom  he  saw  around 
him.  And  attributing,  like  the  most  ignorant  persons,  too  great 
advantages  to  learning,  she  conceived  that,  in  order  to  live  as 
decorously  as  the  parson  of  the  parish,  it  was  only  necessary  to 
know  as  much  Latin. 

One  evening  in  particular,  as  the  dame  sat  by  her  cheerful 
fire,  this  source  of  anxiety  was  unusually  active  in  her  mind, 
and  ever  and  anon  she  directed  unquiet  and  restless  glances 
towards  Paul,  who  sat  on  a  form  at  the  opposite  corner  of  the 
hearth,  diligently  employed  in  reading  the  life  and  adventures 
of  the  celebrated  Richard  Turpin.  The  form  on  which  the  boy 
sat  was  worn  to  a  glassy  smoothness,  save  only  in  certain  places, 
where  some  ingenious  idler  or  another  had  amused  himself  by 
carving  sundry  names,  epithets,  and  epigrammatic  niceties  of 
language.  It  is  said  that  the  organ  of  carving  upon  wood  is 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  Jp 

prominently  developed  on  all  English  skulls ;  and  the  sagacious 
Mr.  Combe  has  placed  this  organ  at  the  back  of  the  head,  in 
juxtaposition  to  that  of  destructiveness,  which  is  equally  large 
among  our  countrymen,  as  is  notably  evinced  upon  all  railings, 
seats,  temples,  and  other  things — belonging  to  other  people. 

Opposite  to  the  fireplace  was  a  large  deal  table,  at  which 
Dummie,  surnamed  Dunnaker,  seated  near  the  dame,  was 
quietly  ruminating  over  a  glass  of  hollands  and  water.  Farther 
on,  at  another  table  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  a  gentleman 
with  a  red  wig,  very  rusty  garments,  and  linen  which  seemed  as 
if  it  had  been  boiled  in  saffron,  smoked  his  pipe,  apart,  silent, 
and  apparently  plunged  in  meditation.  This  gentleman  was  no 
other  than  Mr.  Peter  Mac  Grawler,  the  editor  of  a  magnificent 
periodical,  entitled  "The  Asingeum,"  which  was  written  to  prove 
that  whatever  is  popular  is  necessarily  bad, — a  valuable  and 
recondite  truth,  which  "The  Asinaeum"  had  satisfactorily  dem- 
onstrated by  ruining  three  printers  and  demolishing  a  publisher. 
We  need  not  add  that  Mr.  Mac  Grawler  was  Scotch  by  birth, 
since  we  believe  it  is  pretty  well  known  that  all  periodicals  of 
this  country  have,  from  time  immemorial,  been  monopolized  by 
the  gentleman  of  the  land  of  Cakes :  we  know  not  how  it  may  be 
the  fashion  to  eat  the  said  cakes  in  Scotland,  but  here  the  good 
emigrators  seem  to  like  them  carefully  buttered  on  both  sides. 
By  the  side  of  the  editor  stood  a  large  pewter  tankard ;  above 
him  hung  an  engraving  of  the  "wonderfully  fat  boar,  formerly  in 
the  possession  of  Mr.  Pattern,  grazier."  To  his  left  rose  the 
dingy  form  of  a  thin,  upright  clock  in  an  oaken  case ;  beyond 
the  clock,  a  spit  and  a  musket  were  fastened  in  parallels  to  the 
wall.  Below  those  twin  emblems  of  war  and  cookery  were  four 
shelves,  containing  plates  of  pewter  and  delf,  and  terminating, 
centaur-like,  in  a  sort  of  dresser.  At  the  other  side  of  these 
domestic  conveniences  was  a  picture  of  Mrs.  Lobkins,  in  a 
scarlet  body,  and  a  hat  and  plume.  At  the  back  of  the  fair 
rTos'tess  stretched  the  blanket  we  have  before  mentioned.  As  a 
relief  to  the  monotonous  surface  of  this  simple  screen,  various 
ballads  and  learned  legends  were  pinned  to  the  blanket.  There 
might  you  read  in  verses,  pathetic  and  unadorned,  how — 

' '  Sally  loved  a  sailor  lad 
As  fought  with  famous  Shovel  !  " 

There  might  you  learn,  if  of  two  facts  so  instructive  you  were 
before  unconscious,  that 

"  Ben  the  toper  loved  his  bottle — 
Charley  only  loved  the  lasses  !  " 


20  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

When  of  these,  and  various  other  poetical  effusions,  you  were 
somewhat  wearied,  the  literary  fragments  in  humbler  prose 
afforded  you  equal  edification  and  delight.  There  might  you 
fully  enlighten  yourself  as  to  the  "Strange  and  Wonderful 
News  from  Kensington,  being  a  most  full  and  true  Relation 
how  a  Maid  there  is  supposed  to  have  been  carried  away  by  an 
Evil  Spirit,  on  Wednesday,  i5th  of  April  last,  about  Mid- 
night." There  too,  no  less  interesting  and  no  less  veracious, 
was  that  uncommon  anecdote,  touching  the  chief  of  many- 
throned  powers,  entitled,  "The  Divell  of  Mascon ;  or  the  true 
Relation  of  the  Chief  Things  which  an  Unclean  Spirit  did  and 
said  at  Mascon,  in  Burgundy,  in  the  house  of  one  Mr.  Fran- 
cis Pereaud :  now  made  English  by  One  that  hath  a  Particular 
Knowledge  of  the  Truth  of  the  Story." 

Nor  were  these  materials  for  Satanic  history  the  only  prosaic 
and  faithful  chronicles  which  the  bibliothecal  blanket  afforded : 
equally  wonderful,  and  equally  indisputable,  was  the  account  of 
"a  young  lady,  the  daughter  of  a  duke,  with  three  legs,  and  the 
face  of  a  porcupine."  Nor  less  so,  "The  Awful  Judgment  of 
God  upon  Swearers,  as  exemplified  in  the  case  of  John  Stiles, 
who  Dropped  down  Dead  after  Swearing  a  Great  Oath,  and  on 
stripping  the  unhappy  man  they  found  'Swear  not -at  all' 
written  on  the  tail  of  his  shirt!" 

Twice  had  Mrs.  Lobkins  heaved  a  long  sigh,  as  her  eyes 
turned  from  Paul  to  the  tranquil  countenance  of  Dummie  Dun- 
naker,  and  now,  reseating  herself  in  her  chair,  as  a  motherly 
anxiety  gathered  over  her  visage : 

"Paul,  my  ben  cull,"  said  she,  "what  gibberish  hast  got 
there?" 

"Turpin,  the  great  highwayman !"  answered  the  young  stu- 
dent, without  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  page,  through  which  he 
was  spelling  his  instructive  way. 

"Oh!  he  be's  a  chip  of  the  right  block,  dame!"  said 
Mr.  Dunnaker,  as  he  applied  his  pipe  to  an  illumined  piece 
of  paper.  "He'll  ride  a  oss  foaled  by  a  hacorn  yet,  I 
varrant!" 

To  this  prophecy  the  dame  replied  only  with  a  look  of  indig- 
nation, and  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  in  her  huge  chair,  she 
remained  for  some  moments  in  silent  thought.  At  last  she  again 
wistfully  eyed  the  hopeful  boy,  and  calling  him  to  her  side  com- 
municated some  order  in  a  dejected  whisper.  Paul,  on  per- 
ceiving it,  disappeared  behind  the  blanket,  and  presently  re- 
turned with  a  bottle  and  a  wine-glass.  With  an  abstracted 
gesture,  and  an  air  that  betokened  continued  meditation,  the 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  21 

good  dame  took  the  inspiring  cordial  from  the  .land  of  her 
youthful  cup-bearer: 

"  And  ere  a  man  had  power  to  say  '  Behold  '! 
The  jaws  of  Lobkins  had  devoured  it  up  : 
So  quick  bright  things  come  to  confusion  !  " 

The  nectarean  beverage  seemed  to  operate  cheerily  on  the 
matron's  system ;  and  placing  her  hand  on  the  boy's  curling  head, 
she  said  (like  Andromache,  dakruon  gelesasa,  or,  as  Scott  hath 
it,  "With  a  smile  in  her  cheek,  but  a  tear  in  her  eye") — 

"Paul,  thy  heart  be  good!  thy  heart  be  good!  Thou  didst 
not  spill  a  drop  of  the  tape !  Tell  me,  my  honey,  why  didst 
thou  lick  Tom  Tobyson?" 

"Because,"  answered  Paul,  "he  said  as  how  you  ought  to 
have  been  hanged  long  ago ! ' ' 

"Tom  Tobyson  is  a  good-for-nought,"  reurned  the  dame, 
"and  deserves  to  shove  the  tumbler;*  but,  oh,  my  child!  be 
not  too  venturesome  in  taking  up  the  sticks  for  a  blowen.  It 
has  been  the  ruin  of  many  a  man  afore  you,  and  when  two  men 
goes  to  quarrel  for  a  'oman,  they  doesn't  know  the  natur  of  the 
thing  they  quarrels  about ;  mind  thy  latter  end,  Paul,  and  rev- 
erence the  old,  without  axing  what  they  has  been  before  they 
passed  into  the  wale  of  years ;  thou  may'st  get  me  my  pipe, 
Paul;  it  is  up-stairs,  under  the  pillow." 

While  Paul  was  accomplishing  his  errand,  the  lady  of  the 
Mug,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  Mr.  Dunnaker,  said,  "Dummie, 
Dummie,  if  little  Paul  should  come  to  be  scragged!" 

"Whish!"  muttered  Dummie,  glancing  over  his  shoulder  at 
Mac  Crawler,  "mayhap  that  gemman, " — here  his  voice  became 
scarcely  audible  even  to  Mrs.  Lobkins ;  but  his  whisper  seemed 
to  imply  an  insinuation  that  the  illustrious  editor  of  "The  Asin- 
seum"  might  be  either  an  informer,  or  one  of  those  heroes  on 
whom  an  informer  subsists. 

Mrs.  Lobkins's  answer,  couched  in  the  same  key,  appeared  to 
satisfy  Dunnaker,  for,  with  a  look  of  great  contempt,  he 
chucked  up  his  head,  and  said,  "Oho!  that  be  all,  be  it!" 

Paul  here  reappeared  with  the  pipe,  and  the  dame,  having  filled 
the  tube,  leaned  forward,  and  lighted  the  Virginian  weed  from 
the  blower  of  Mr.  Dunnaker.  As  in  this  interesting  occupation 
the  heads  of  the  hostess  and  the  guest  approached  each  other, 
the  glowing  light  playing  cheerily  on  the  countenance  of  each, 
there  was  an  honest  simplicity  in  the  picture  that  would  have 
merited  the  racy  and  vigorous  genius  of  a  Cruikshank.  As 
soon  as  the  Promethean  spark  had  been  fully  communicated  to 

*  B«  whipped  at  the  cart's  tail. 


32  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

the  lady's  t  ibe,  Mrs.    Lobkins,  still  possessed  by  the  gloomy 
ideas  she  had  conjured  up,  repeated : 

"Ah,  Dummie,  if  little  Paul  should  be  scragged!"  Dummie, 
withdrawing  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  heaved  a  sympathizing 
puff,  but  remained  silent ;  and  Mrs.  Lobkins,  turning  to  Paul, 
who  stood  with  mouth  open  and  ears  erect  at  this  boding  ejacu- 
lation, said: 

"Dost  think,  Paul,  they'd  have  the  heart  to  hang  thee?" 

"I  think  they'd  have  the  rope,  dame!"  returned  the  youth. 

"But  you  need  not  go  for  to  run  your  neck  into  the  noose!" 
said  the  matron ;  and  then,  inspired  by  the  spirit  of  moralizing, 
she  turned  round  to  the  youth,  and  gazing  upon  his  attentive 
countenance,  accosted  him  with  the  following  admonitions: 

"Mind  thy  kittychism,  child,  and  reverence  old  age.  Never 
steal,  'specially  when  any  one  be  in  the  way.  Never  go  snacks 
with  them  as  be  older  than  you, — 'cause  why?  the  older  a  cove 
be,  the  more  he  cares  for  his  self,  and  the  less  for  his  partner. 
At  twenty,  we  diddles  the  public;  at  forty  we  diddles  our 
cronies!  Be  modest,  Paul,  and  stick  to  your  sitivation  in  life. 
Go  not  with  fine  tobymen,  who  burn  out  like  a  candle  wot  has 
a  thief  in  it, — all  flare  and  gone  in  a  whiffy !  Leave  liquor  to 
the  aged,  who  can't  do  without  it.  Tape  often  proves  a  halter, 
and  there  be's  no  ruin  like  blue  ruin !  Read  your  Bible,  and 
talk  like  a  pious  'un.  People  goes  more  by  your  Avords  than 
your  actions.  If  you  wants  what  is  not  your  own,  try  and  do 
without  it ;  and  if  you  cannot  do  without  it,  take  it  away  by 
insinivation,  not  bluster.  They  as  swindles  does  more  and 
risks  less  than  they  as  robs;  and  if  you  cheats  toppingly  you 
may  laugh  at  the  topping  cheat.*  And  now  go  play." 

Paul  seized  his  hat,  but  lingered ;  and  the  dame,  guessing  at 
the  signification  of  the  pause,  drew  forth,  and  placed  in  the 
boy's  hand  the  sum  of  five  halfpence  and  one  farthing.  "There, 
boy,"  quoth  she,  and  she  stroked  his  head  fondly  when  she 
spoke;  "you  does  right  not  to  play  for  nothing,  it's  loss  of 
time !  but  play  with  those  as  be  less  than  yoursel',  and  then 
you  can  go  for  to  beat  'em  if  they  says  you  go  for  to  cheat!" 

Paul  vanished ;  and  the  dame,  laying  her  hand  on  Dummie's 
shoulder,  said: 

"There  be  nothing  like  a  friend  in  need,  Dummie;  and  some- 
how or  other,  I  thinks  as  how  you  knows  more  of  the  horrigin 
'of  that  'ere  lad  than  any  of  us!" 

"Me,  dame!"  exclaimed  Dummie;  with  a  broad  gaze  of 
astonishment. 

*  Callows. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  23 

"Ah,  you!  you  knows  as  how  the  mother  saw  more  of  you 
just  afore  she  died,  than  she  did  of  'ere  one  of  us.  Noar,  now — 
noar,  now!  tell  us  all  about  'un.  Did  she  steal  'un,  think  ye  ?" 

"Lauk,  mother  Margery!  dost  think  I  knows?  Vot  put  such 
a  crotchet  in  your  'ead?" 

"Well!"  said  the  dame,  with  a  disappointed  sigh,  "I  always 
thought  as  how  you  were  more  knowing  about  it  than  you  owns. 
Dear,  dear,  I  shall  never  forgit  the  night  when  Judith  brought 
the  poor  cretur  here ;  you  knows  she  had  been  some  months  in 
my  house  afore  ever  I  see'd  the  urchin,  and  when  she  brought 
it,  she  looked  so  pale  and  ghostly,  that  I  had  not  the  heart  to 
say  a  word,  so  I  stared  at  the  brat,  and  it  stretched  out  its  wee 
little  hands  to  me.  And  the  mother  frowned  at  it,  and  throwed 
it  into  my  lap ! ' ' 

"Ah!  she  was  a  hawful  voman,  that  'ere  !"  said  Dummie, 
shaking  his  head.  "But  howsomever,  the  hurchin  fell  into 
good  hands;  for  I  be's  sure  you  'as  been  a  better  mother  to  'un 
than  the  raal  'un!" 

"I  was  always  a  fool  about  childer, "  rejoined  Mrs.  Lobkins; 
"and  I  thinks  as  how  little  Paul  was  sent  to  be  a  comfort  to  my 
latter  end! — fill  the  glass,  Dummie. " 

"I  'as  heard  ow  Judith  was  once  blowen  to  a  great  lord!"  said 
Dummie. 

"Like enough!"  returned  Mrs.  Lobkins;  "likeenough!  She 
was  always  a  favorite  of  mine,  for  she  had  a  spuret  (spirit)  as 
big  as  my  own ;  and  she  paid  her  rint  like  a  decent  body,  for 
all  she  was  out  of  her  sinses,  or  nation  like  it." 

"Ay,  I  knows  as  how  you  liked  her, — 'cause  vy?  'tis  not 
your  vay  to  let  a  room  to  a  voman!  You  says  as  how  'tis  not 
respectable,  and  you  only  likes  men  to  wisit  the  Mug!" 

"And  I  doesn't  like  all  of  them  as  comes  here  !"  answered 
the  dame:  "'specially  for  Paul's  sake;  but  what  can  a  lone 
'oman  do?  Many's  the  gentleman  highwayman  wot  comes  here, 
whose  money  is  as  good  as  the  clerk's  of  the  parish.  And  when 
a  bob*  is  in  my  hand,  what  does  it  sinnify  whose  hand  it  was  in 
afore?" 

"That's  what  I  call  being  sinsible  and  practical ',"  said  Dum- 
mie approvingly.  "And,  arter  all,  though  you  'as  a  mixture 
like,  I  does  not  know  a  halehouse  where  a  cove  is  better  enter- 
tained, nor  meets  of  a  Sunday  more  illegant  company,  than  the 
Mug!" 

Here  the  conversation,  which  the  reader  must  know  had 
been  sustained  in  a  key  inaudible  to  a  third  person,  received  a 

*  Shilling. 


24  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

check  from  Mr.  Peter  Mac  Crawler,  who,  having  finished  his 
revery  and  his  tankard,  now  rose  to  depart.  First,  however, 
approaching  Mrs.  Lobkins,  he  observed  that  he  had  gone  on 
credit  for  some  days,  and  demanded  the  amount  of  his  bill. 
Glancing  towards  certain  chalk  hieroglyphics  inscribed  on  the 
wall  at  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace,  the  dame  answered  that 
Mr.  Mac  Grawler  was  indebted  to  her  for  the  sum  of  one  shil- 
ling and  ninepence  three  farthings. 

After  a  short  preparatory  search  in  his  waistcoat  pockets  the 
critic  hunted  into  one  corner  a  solitary  half-crown,  and  having 
caught  it  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  he  gave  it  to  Mrs.  Lob- 
kins,  and  requested  change. 

As  soon  as  the  matron  felt  her  hand  anointed  with  what  has 
been  called  by  some  ingenious  Johnson  of  St.  Giles's  "the  oil  of 
palms,"  her  countenance  softened  into  a  complacent  smile; 
and  when  she  gave  the  required  change  to  Mr.  Mac  Grawler, 
she  graciously  hoped  as  how  he  would  recommend  the  Mug 
to  the  public. 

"That  you  may  be  sure  of,"  said  the  editor  of  "The 
A.sinaeum."  "There  is  not  a  place  where  I  am  so  much  at 
home." 

With  that  the  learned  Scotsman  buttoned  his  coat  and  went 
his  way. 

"How  spiteful  the  world  be!"  said  Mrs.  Lobkins  after  a  pause, 
"  'specially  if  a  'oman  keeps  a  fashionable  sort  of  a  public! 
When  Judith  died,  Joe,  the  dog's  meat  man,  said  I  war  all  the 
better  for  it, and  that  she  left  I  a  treasure  to  bring  up  the  urchin. 
One  would  think  a  thumper  makes  a  man  richer, — 'cause  why? 
every  man  thumps!  I  got  nothing  more  than  a  watch  and  ten 
guineas  when  Judy  died,  and  sure  that  scarce  paid  for  the 
burrel  (burial)." 

"You  forgits  the  two  quids*  I  give  you  for  the  hold  box  of 
rags, — much  of  a  treasure  I  found  there!"  said  Dummie,  with 
sycophantic  archness. 

"Ay,"  cried  the  dame,  laughing,  "I  fancies  you  war  not 
pleased  with  the  bargain.  I  thought  you  war  too  old  a  rag- 
merchant  to  be  so  free  with  the  blunt :  howsomever,  I  suppose 
it  war  the  tinsel  petticoat  as  took  you  in!" 

"As  it  has  rnony  a  viser  man  than  the  like  of  I,"  rejoined 
Dummie,  who  to  his  various  secret  professions  added  the 
ostensible  one  of  a  rag-merchant  and  dealer  in  broken  glass. 

The  recollection  of  her  good  bargain  in  the  box  of  rags 
opened  our  landlady's  heart. 

*  Guineas. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  25 

"Drink,  Dummie,"  said  she  good-humoredly,  "drink,  I 
scorns  to  score  lush  to  a  friend." 

Dummie  expressed  his  gratitude,  refilled  his  glass,  and  the 
hospitable  matron,  knocking  out  from  her  pipe  the  dying  ashes, 
thus  proceeded : 

"You  sees,  Dummie,  though  I  often  beats  the  boy,  I  laves 
him  as  much  as  if  I  war  his  raal  mother.  I  wants  to  make  him 
an  honor  to  his  country  and  an  ixciption  to  my  family!" 

"Who  all  flashed  their  ivories  at  Surgeons'  Hall!"  added  the 
metaphorical  Dummie. 

"True!"  said  the  lady,  "they  died  game,  and  I  ben't  ashamed 
of  'em.  But  I  owes  a  duty  to  Paul's  mother,  and  I  wants 
Paul  to  have  a  long  life.  I  would  send  him  to  school,  but  you 
knows  as  how  the  boys  only  corrupt  one  another.  And  so,  I 
should  like  to  meet  with  some  decent  man  as  a  tutor,  to  teach 
the  lad  Latin  and  vartue!" 

"My  eyes!"  cried  Dummie,  aghast  at  the  grandeur  of  this 
desire. 

"The  boy  is  'cute  enough,  and  he  loves  reading, "  continued 
the  dame.  "But  I  does  not  think  the  books  he  gets  hold  of  will 
teach  him  the  way  to  grow  old." 

"And  ow  came  he  to  read  anyhows?" 

"Ranting  Rob,  the  strolling  player,  taught  him  his  letters,  and 
said  he'd  a  deal  of  janius." 

"And  why  should  not  Ranting  Rob  tache  the  boy  Latin  and 
vartue?" 

'  'Cause  Ranting  Rob,  poor  fellow,  -was  lagged  for  doing  a 
+annyf"*  answered  the  dame  despondently. 

There  was  a  long  silence :  it  was  broken  by  Mr.  Dummie : 
slapping  his  thigh  with  the  gesticulatory  vehemence  of  an  Ugo 
Foscolo,  that  gentleman  exclaimed: 

"I  'as  it!     I  'as  thought  of  a  tutor  for  leetle  Paul!" 

"Who's  that?  you  quite  frightens  me;  you  'as  no  marcy  on 
my  narves,"  said  the  dame  fretfully. 

"Vy  it  be  the  gemman  vot  writes,"  said  Dummie,  put- 
ting his  finger  to  his  nose;  "the  gemman  vot  payed  you  so 
flashly." 

"What!   the  Scotch  gemman?" 

"The  werry  same,"  returned  Dummie. 

The  dame  turned  in  her  chair,  and  refilled  her  pipe.  It  was 
evident  from  her  manner  that  Mr.  Dunnaker's  suggestion  had 
made  an  impression  on  her.  But  she  recognized  two  doubts  as 
to  its  feasibility :  one,  whether  the  gentleman  proposed  would  be 

*  Transported  for  burglary. 


26  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

adequate  to  the  task  ;  the  other,  whether  he  would  be  willing  to 
undertake  it. 

In  the  midst  of  her  meditations  on  this  matter,  the  dame  was 
interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  certain  claimants  on  her  hospi- 
tality ;  and  Dummie  soon  after  taking  his  leave,  the  suspense 
of  Mrs.  Lobkins's  mind  touching  the  education  of  little  Paul 
remained  the  whole  of  that  day  and  night  utterly  unrelieved. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  I  own  that  I  am  envious  of  the  pleasure  you  will  have  in  finding  your- 
self  more  learned  than  other  boys — even  those  who  are  older  than  yourself } 
What  honor  this  will  do  you  !  What  distinctions,  what  applauses  will  follow 
wherever  you  go  !  " — LORD  CHESTERFIELD'S  Letters  to  his  Son. 

"  Example,  my  boy — example  is  worth  a  thousand  precepts." 

MAXIMILIAN  SOLEMN. 

TARPEI A  was  crushed  beneath  the  weight  of  ornaments !  The 
language  of  the  vulgar  is  a  sort  of  Tarpeia!  We  have  therefore 
relieved  it  of  as  many  gems  as  we  were  able;  and,  in  the  fore- 
going scene,  presented  it  to  the  gaze  of  our  readers  simplex  mun- 
ditiis.  Nevertheless,  we  could  timidly  imagine  some  gentler 
beings  of  the  softer  sex  rather  displeased  with  the  tone  of  the 
dialogue  we  have  given,  did  we  not  recollect  how  delighted  they 
are  with  the  provincial  barbarities  of  the  sister  kingdom,  when- 
ever they  meet  them  poured  over  the  pages  of  some  Scottish 
story-teller.  As,  unhappily  for  mankind,  broad  Scotch  is  not 
yet  the  universal  language  of  Europe,  we  suppose  our  country- 
women will  not  be  much  more  unacquainted  with  the  dialect  of 
their  own  lower  orders,  than  with  that  which  breathes  nasal 
melodies  over  the  paradise  of  the  North. 

It  was  the  next  day,  at  the  hour  of  twilight,  when  Mrs.  Mar- 
gery Lobkins,  after  a  satisfactory  tete-ci-t£te  with  Mr.  Mac 
Grawler,  had  the  happiness  of  thinking  that  she  had  provided  a 
tutor  for  little  Paul.  The  critic  having  recited  to  her  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  Propria  qua  Maribus,  the  good  lady  had 
no  longer  a  doubt  of  his  capacities  for  teaching ;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  when  Mrs.  Lobkins  entered  on  the  subject  of 
remuneration  the  Scotsman  professed  himself  perfectly  willing 
to  teach  any  and  every  thing  that  the  most  exacting  guardian 
could  require.  It  was  finally  settled  that  Paul  should  attend 
Mr.  Mac  Grawler  two  hours  a  day ;  that  Mr.  Mac  Grawler 
should  be  entitled  to  such  animal  comforts  of  meat  and  drink  as 


PAUL    CLIFFORtX  27 

the  Mug  afforded ;  and,  moreover,  to  the  weekly  stipend  of  two 
shillings  and  sixpence,  the  shillings  for  instruction  in  the  classics, 
and  the  sixpence  for  all  other  humanities;  or,  as  Mrs.  Lob- 
kins  expressed  it,  "two  bobs  for  the  Latin,  and  a  sice  for  the 
vartue!" 

Let  not  thy  mind,  gentle  reader,  censure  us  for  a  deviation 
from  probability,  in  making  so  excellent  and  learned  a  gentle- 
man as  Mr.  Peter  Mac  Crawler  the  familiar  guest  of  the  lady 
of  the  Mug.  First,  thou  must  know  that  our  story  is  cast  in 
a  period  antecedent  to  the  present,  and  one  in  which  the  old 
jokes  against  the  circumstances  of  author  and  of  critic  had  their 
foundation  in  truth;  secondly,  thou  must  know,  that  by  some 
curious  concatenation  of  circumstances,  neither  bailiff  nor 
bailiff's  man  was  ever  seen  within  the  four  walls  continent  of 
Mrs.  Margery  Lobkins;  thirdly,  the  Mug  was  nearer  than  any 
other  house  of  public  resort  to  the  abode  of  the  critic ;  fourthly, 
it  afforded  excellent  porter;  and  fifthly — O  reader,  thou  dost 
Mrs.  Margery  Lobkins  a  grievous  wrong,  if  thou  supposes! 
that  her  door  was  only  open  to  those  mercurial  gentry 
who  are  afflicted  with  the  morbid  curiosity  to  pry  into  the 
mysteries  of  their  neighbor's  pockets — other  visitors  of  fair 
repute  were  not  unoften  partakers  of  the  good  matron's  hos- 
pitality ;  although  it  must  be  owned  that  they  generally  occu- 
pied the  private  room  in  preference  to  the  public  one ;  and 
sixthly,  sweet  reader  (we  grieve  to  be  so  prolix),  we  would  just 
hint  to  thee,  that  Mr.  Mac  Crawler  was  one  of  those  vast-minded 
sages  who,  occupied  in  contemplating  morals  in  the  great  scale, 
do  not  fritter  down  their  intellects  by  a  base  attention  to  min- 
ute details.  So  that,  if  a  descendant  of  Langfanger  did  some- 
times cross  the  venerable  Scot  in  his  visit  to  the  Mug,  the  ap- 
parition did  not  revolt  that  benevolent  moralist  so  much  as, 
were  it  not  for  the  above  hint,  thy  ignorance  might  lead  thee 
to  imagine. 

It  is  said  that  Athenodorus  the  Stoic  contributed  greatly  by 
his  conversation  to  amend  the  faults  of  Augustus,  and  to  effect 
the  change  visible  in  that  fortunate  man  after  his  accession  to 
the  Roman  empire.  If  this  be  true,  it  may  throw  a  new  light 
on  the  character  of  Augustus,  and,  instead  of  being  the  hypo- 
crite, he  was  possibly  the  convert.  Certain  it  is  that  there  are 
few  vices  which  cannot  be  conquered  by  wisdom:  and  yet, 
melancholy  to  relate,  the  instruction  of  Peter  Mac  Crawler 
produced  but  slender  amelioration  in  the  habits  of  the  youthful 
Paul.  That  ingenious  stripling  had,  we  have  already  seen, 
under  the  tuition  of  Ranting  Rob,  mastered  the  art  of  reading ; 


28  fAUL    CLIFFORD. 


nay,  he  could  even  construct  and  link  together  certain  curious 
pot-hooks,  which  himself  and  Mrs.  Lobkins  were  wont  gracious- 
ly to  term  "writing."  So  far,  then  the  way  of  Mac  Grawler  was 
smoothed  and  prepared. 

But,  unhappily,  all  experienced  teachers  allow  that  the  main 
difficulty  is  not  to  learn,  but  to  unlearn,  and  the  mind  of  Paul 
was  already  occupied  by  a  vast  number  of  heterogeneous  mis- 
cellanies, which  stoutly  resisted  the  ingress  either  of  Latin  or 
of  virtue.  Nothing  could  wean  him  from  an  ominous  affection 
for  the  history  of  Richard  Turpin:  it  was  to  him  what,  it  has 
been  said,  the  Greek  authors  should  be  to  the  Academician,  — 
a  study  by  day,  and  a  dream  by  night.  He  was  docile  enough 
during  lessons,  and  sometimes  even  too  quick  in  conception 
for  the  stately  march  of  Mr.  Mac  Crawler's  intellect.  But  it 
not  unfrequently  happened,  that  when  that  gentleman  attempted 
to  rise,  he  found  himself,  like  the  lady  in  Comus,  adhering 
to— 

"  A  venomed  seat 
Smeared  with  gums  of  glutinous  heat  "  ; 

or  his  legs  had  been  secretly  united  under  the  table,  and  the 
tie  was  not  to  be  broken  without  overthrow  to  the  superior 
powers;  these,  and  various  other  little  sportive  machinations 
wherewith  Paul  was  wont  to  relieve  the  monotony  of  literature, 
went  far  to  disgust  the  learned  critic  with  his  undertaking. 
But  "the  tape"  and  the  treasury  of  Mrs.  Lobkins  re-smoothed, 
as  it  were,  the  irritated  bristles  of  his  mind,  and  he  continued 
his  labors  with  this  philosophical  reflection:  "Why  fret  myself? 
If  a  pupil  turn  out  well,  it  is  clearly  to  the  credit  of  his  master; 
if  not,  to  the  disadvantage  of  himself."  Ot  course,  a  similar 
suggestion  never  forced  itself  into  the  mind  of  Dr.Keate.*  At 
Eton,  the  very  soul  of  the  honest  head-master  is  consumed  by 
his  zeal  for  the  welfare  of  little  gentlemen  in  stiff  cravats. 

But  to  Paul,  who  was  predestined  to  enjoy  a  certain  quantum 
of  knowledge,  circumstances  happened,  in  the  commencement 
of  the  second  year  of  his  pupilage,  which  prodigiously  acceler- 
ated the  progress  of  his  scholastic  career. 

At  the  apartment  of  Mac  Grawler  Paul  one  morning  en- 
countered Mr.  Augustus  Tomlinson,  a  young  man  of  great 
promise,  who  pursued  the  peaceful  occupation  of  chronicling 
in  a  leading  newspaper,  "Horrid  Murders,"  "Enormous  Mel- 
ons," and  "Remarkable  Circumstances."  This  gentleman,  hav- 
ing the  advantage  of  some  years'  seniority  over  Paul,  was  slow 
in  unbending  his  dignity  ;  but  observing  at  last  the  eager  and 

*  A  celebrated  Principal  of  Eton. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  2$ 

respectful  attention  with  which  the  stripling  listened  to  a  most 
veracious  detail  of  five  men  being  inhumanly  murdered  in  Can- 
terbury Cathedral  by  the  Reverend  Zedekiah  Fooks  Barnacle, 
he  was  touched  by  the  impression  he  had  created,  and  shaking 
Paul  graciously  by  the  hand,  he  told  him  there  was  a  deal  of 
natural  shrewdness  in  his  countenance ;  and  that  Mr.  Augus- 
tus Tomlinson  did  not  doubt  but  that  he  (Paul)  might  have  the 
honor  to  be  murdered  himself  one  of  these  days.  "You  under- 
stand me!"  continued  Mr.  Augustus,  "I  mean  murdered  in 
effigy, — assassinated  in  type, — while  you  yourself,  unconscious 
of  the  circumstance,  are  quietly  enjoying  what  you  imagine  to 
be  your  existence.  We  never  kill  common  persons:  to  say 
truth,  our  chief  spite  is  against  the  Church ;  we  destroy  bishops 
by  wholesale.  Sometimes  indeed,  we  knock  off  a  leading  bar- 
rister or  so;  ar.rl  express  the  anguish  of  the  junior  counsel  at  a 
?oss  so  decirur^ve  to  their  interests.  But  that  is  only  a  stray 
hit ;  and  the  slain  barrister  often  lives  to  become  attorney  gen- 
eral, renounce  whig  principles,  and  prosecute  the  very  press 
that  destroyed  him.  Bishops  are  our  proper  food :  we  send 
them  to  heaven  on  a  sort  of  flying  griffin,  of  which  the  back  is 

an  apoplexy,  and  the  wings  are  puffs.     The  Bishop  of ,  whom 

we  despatched  in  this  manner  the  other  day,  being  rather  a  face- 
tious personage,  wrote  to  remonstrate  with  us  thereon ;  observ- 
ing, that  though  heaven  was  a  very  good  translation  for  a  bishop, 
yet  that,  in  such  cases,  he  preferred  'the  original  to  the  trans- 
lation.' As  we  murder  bishops,  so  is  there  another  class  of 
persons  whom  we  only  afflict  with  lethiferous  diseases.  This 
latter  tribe  consists  of  his  Majesty  and  his  Majesty's  ministers. 
Whenever  we  cannot  abuse  their  measures,  we  always  fall  foul 
on  their  health.  Does  the  king  pass  any  popular  law?  we  im- 
mediately insinuate  that  his  constitution  is  on  its  last  legs. 
Does  the  minister  act  like  a  man  of  sense?  we  instantly  ob- 
serve, with  great  regret,  that  his  complexion  is  remarkably  pale. 
There  is  one  manifest  advantage  in  diseasing  people,  instead  of 
absolutely  destroying  them.  The  public  may  flatly  contradict 
us  in  one  case,  but  it  never  can  in  the  other ;  it  is  easy  to  prove 
that  a  man  is  alive,  but  utterly  impossible  to  prove  that  he  is  in 
health.  What  if  some  opposing  newspaper  take  up  the  cudgels 
in  his  behalf,  and  assert  that  the  victim  of  all  Pandora's  com- 
plaints, whom  we  send  tottering  to  the  grave,  passes  one-half 
the  day  in  knocking  up  a  'distinguished  company'  at  a  shoot- 
ing-party, and  the  other  half  in  outdoing  the  same  'distinguished 
company'  after  dinner.  What  if  the  afflicted  individual  him- 
self write  us  word  that  he  never  was  better  in  his  life?  We 


30  PAUL    CLIFFORD.. 

have  only  mysteriously  to  shake  our  heads  and  observe  that  to 
contradict  is  not  to  prove,  that  it  is  little  likely  that  our  author- 
ity should  have  been  mistaken,  and  (we  are  very  fond  of  an 
historical  comparison)  beg  our  readers  to  remember  that  when 
Cardinal  Richelieu  was  dying,  nothing  enraged  him  so  much 
as  hinting  that  he  was  ill.  In  short,  if  Horace  is  r.'ght,  we  are 
the  very  princes  of  poets ;  for  I  daresay,  Mr.  Mac  Grawler, 
that  you — and  you  too,  my  little  gentleman — perfectly  remem- 
ber the  words  of  the  wise  old  Roman, 

'  Ille  per  extentum  funem  mihi  posse  videtur 
Ire  poeta,  meum  qui  pectus  inaniter  angit, 
Irritat,  mulcel,  falsis  terroribus  implet.'"* 

Having  uttered  this  quotation  with  considerable  self-compla- 
cency, and  thereby  entirely  completed  his  conquest  over  Paul, 
Mr.  Augustus  Tomlinson,  turning  to  Mac  Grawler,  concluded 
his  business  with  that  gentleman,  which  was  of  a  literary  nature, 
namely  a  joint  composition  against  a  man  who,  being  under 
five-and-twenty,  and  too  poor  to  give  dinners,  had  had  the  im- 
pudence to  write  a  sacred  poem.  The  critics  were  exceedingly 
bitter  at  this ;  and  having  very  little  to  say  against  the  poem, 
the  Court  journals  called  the  author  a  "coxcomb,"  and  the 
liberal  ones  "the  son  of  a  pantaloon!" 

There  was  an  ease,  a  spirit,  a  life  about  Mr.  Augustus  Tom- 
linson which  captivated  the  senses  of  our  young  hero :  then, 
too,  he  was  exceedingly  smartly  attired ;  wore  red  heels  and 
a  bag;  had  what  seemed  to  Paul  quite  the  air  of  a  "man  of  fash- 
ion" ;  and,  above  all,  he  spouted  the  Latin  with  a  remarkable 
grace ! 

Some  days  afterwards  Mac  Grawler  sent  our  hero  to  Mr. 
Tomlinson's  lodgings  with  his  share  of  the  joint  abuse  upon  the 
poet. 

Doubly  was  Paul's  reverence  for  Mr.  Augustus  Tomlinson 
increased  by  a  sight  of  his  abode.  He  found  him  settled  in  a 
polite  part  of  the  town,  in  a  very  spruce  parlor,  the  contents  of 
which  manifested  the  universal  genius  of  the  inhabitant.  It 
hath  been  objected  unto  us  by  a  most  discerning  critic,  that  we 
are  addicted  to  the  drawing  of  "universal  geniuses.  "We  plead 
Not  Guilty  in  former  instances ;  we  allow  the  soft  impeach- 
ment in  the  instance  of  Mr.  Augustus  Tomlinson.  Over  his 
fireplace  were  arranged  boxing  gloves  and  fencing  foils.  On  his 
table  lay  a  cremona  and  a  flageolet.  On  one  side  of  the  wall 
were  shelves  containing  the  Covent  Garden  Magazine,  Burn's 

*  He  appears  to  me  to  be,  to  the  fullest  extent,  a  poet,  who  airily  torments  my  breast, 
irritates,  soothes,  fills  it  with  unreal  terrors, 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  3! 

Justice,  a  pocket  Horace,  a  Prayer-book,  Excerpta  ex  Tacito, 
a  volume  of  Plays,  Philosophy  made  Easy,  and  a  Key  to  all 
Knowledge.  Furthermore,  there  were  on  another  table  a  rid- 
ing-whip, and  a  driving-whip,  and  a  pair  of  spurs,  and  three 
guineas,  with  a  little  mountain  of  loose  silver.  Mr.  Augustus 
was  a  tall,  fair  young  man,  with  a  freckled  complexion;  green 
eyes  and  red  eyelids ;  a  smiling  mouth,  rather  under-jawed ;  a 
sharp  nose;  and  a  prodigiously  large  pair  of  ears.  He  was 
robed  in  a  green  damask  dressing-gown ;  and  he  received  the 
tender  Paul  most  graciously. 

There  was  something  very  engaging  about  our  hero.  He 
was  not  only  good-looking,  and  frank  in  aspect,  but  he  had  that 
appearance  of  briskness  and  intellect  which  belongs  to  an  em- 
bryo rogue.  Mr.  Augustus  Tomlinson  professed  the  greatest 
regard  for  him ;  asked  him  if  he  could  box ;  made  him  put  on  a 
pair  of  gloves ;  and,  very  condescendingly,  knocked  him  down 
three  times  successively.  Next  he  played  him,  both  upon  his 
flageolet  and  his  cremona,  some  of  the  most  modish  airs. 
Moreover,  he  sang  him  a  little  song  of  his  own  composing.  He 
then,  taking  up  the  driving-whip,  flanked  a  fly  from  the  oppo- 
site wall,  and  throwing  himself  (naturally  fatigued  with  his 
numerous  exertions)  on  his  sofa,  he  observed,  in  a  careless 
tone,  that  he  and  his  friend  Lord  Dunshunner  were  universally 
esteemed  the  best  whips  in  the  metropolis.  "I,"  quoth  Mr. 
Augustus,  "am  the  best  on  the  road;  but  my  lord  is  a  devil  at 
turning  a  corner." 

Paul,  who  had  hithero  lived  too  unsophisticated  a  life  to  be 
aware  of  the  importance  of  which  a  lord  would  naturally  be  in 
the  eyes  of  Mr.  Augustus  Tomlinson,  was  not  so  much  struck 
with  the  grandeur  of  the  connection  as  the  murderer  of  the 
journals  had  expected.  He  merely  observed,  by  way  of  compli- 
ment, that  Mr.  Augustus  and  his  companion  seemed  to  be 
"rolling  kiddies." 

A  little  displeased  with  this  metaphorical  ramark — for  it  may 
be  observed  that  "rolling  kiddy"  is,  among  the  learned  in  such 
lore,  the  customary  expression  for  "a  smart  thief"  — the  uni- 
versal Augustus  took  that  liberty  to  which,  by  his  age  and  sta- 
tion, so  much  superior  to  those  of  Paul,  he  imagined  himself 
entitled,  and  gently  reproved  our  hero  for  his  indiscriminate 
use  of  flash  phrases. 

"A  lad  of  your  parts,"  said  he, — "for  I  see  you  are  clever  bv 
your  eye, — ought  to  be  ashamed  of  using  such  vulgar  expres- 
sions. Have  a  nobler  spirit,  a  loftier  emulation,  Paul,  than 
that  which  distinguishes  the  little  ragamuffins  of  the  street. 


32  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

Know  that,  in  this  country,  genius  and  learning  carry  every- 
thing before  them ;  and  if  you  behave  yourself  properly,  you 
may,  one  day  or  another,  be  as  high  in  the  world  as  myself." 

At  this  speech  Paul  looked  wistfully  round  the  spruce  parlor, 
and  thought  what  a  fine  thing  it  would  be  to  be  lord  of  such  a 
domain,  together  with  the  appliances  of  flageolet  and  cremona, 
boxing-gloves,  books,  fly-flanking  flagellum,  three  guineas,  with 
the  little  mountain  of  silver,  and  the  reputation — shared  only 
with  Lord  Dunshunner — of  being  the  best  whip  in  London. 

"Yes!"  continued  Tomlinson,  with  conscious  pride,  "I  owe 
my  rise  to  myself.  Learning  is  better  than  house  and  land. 
Jpoctrina  sedvim, '  etc.,  you  know  what  old  Horace  says?  Why, 
sir,  you  would  not  believe  it ;  but  I  was  the  man  who  killed  his 
majesty  the  King  of  Sardinia  in  our  yesterday's  paper.  Noth- 
ing is  too  arduous  for  genius.  Fag  hard,  my  boy,  and  you  may 
rival — for  the  thing,  though  difficult,  may  not  be  impossible — 
Augustus  Tomlinson!" 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  harangue,  a  knock  at  the  door  being 
heard,  Paul  took  his  departure,  and  met  in  the  hall  a  fine- 
looking  person  dressed  in  the  height  of  the  fashion,  and  wear- 
ing a  pair  of  prodigiously  large  buckles  in  his  shoes.  Paul 
looked,  and  his  heart  swelled.  "I  may  rival,"  thought  he — 
those  were  his  very  words — "I  may  rival — for  the  thing, 
though  difficult,  is  not  impossible — Augustus  Tomlinson!" 
Absorbed  in  meditation  he  went  silently  home.  The  next  day 
the  memoirs  of  the  great  Turpin  were  committed  to  the  flames, 
and  it  was  noticeable  that  henceforth  Paul  observed  a  choicer  pro- 
priety of  words,  that  he  assumed  a  more  refined  air  of  dignity, 
jind  that  he  paid  considerably  more  attention  than  heretofore 
to  the  lessons  of  Mr.  Peter  Mac  Crawler.  Although  it  must 
be  allowed  that  our  young  hero's  progress  in  the  learned  lan- 
guages was  not  astonishing,  yet  an  early  passion  for  reading 
growing  stronger  and  stronger  by  application,  repaid  him  at 
last  with  a  tolerable  knowledge  of  the  mother-tongue.  We 
must,  however,  add  that  his  more  favorite  and  cherished  stud- 
ies were  scarcely  of  that  nature  which  a  prudent  preceptor 
would  have  greatly  commended.  They  lay  chiefly  among 
novels,  plays,  and  poetry,  which  last  he  affected  to  that  degree 
that  he  became  somewhat  of  a  poet  himself.  Nevertheless 
.these  literary  avocations,  profitless  as  they  seemed,  gave  a  cer- 
tain refinement  to  his  tastes  which  they  were  not  likely  other- 
wise to  have  acquired  at  the  Mug;  and  while  they  aroused 
his  ambition  to  see  something  of  the  gay  life  they  depicted, 
they  imparted  to  his  temper  a  tone  of  enterprise  and  of  thought- 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  33 

less  generosity,  which  perhaps  contributed  greatly  to  counter- 
act those  evil  influences  towards  petty  vice,  to  which  the  exam- 
ples around  him  must  have  exposed  his  tender  youth.  But, 
alas !  a  great  disappointment  to  Paul's  hope  of  assistance  and 
companionship  in  his  literary  labors  befell  him.  Mr.  Augustus 
Tomlinson  one  bright  morning  disappeared,  leaving  word  with 
his  numerous  friends  that  he  was  going  to  accept  a  lucrative  sit- 
uation in  the  North  of  England.  Notwithstanding  the  shock 
this  occasioned  to  the  affectionate  heart  and  aspiring  temper  of 
our  friend  Paul,  it  abated  not  his  ardor  in  that  field  of  science 
which  it  seemed  that  the  distinguished  absentee  had  so  suc- 
cessfully cultivated.  By  little  and  little  he  possessed  himself 
(in  addition  to  the  literary  stores  we  have  alluded  to)  of  all  it 
was  in  the  power  of  the  wise  and  profound  Peter  Mac  Crawler 
to  impart  unto  him ;  and  at  the  age  of  sixteen  he  began  (O  the 
presumption  of  youth ! )  to  fancy  himself  more  learned  than  hi* 
master. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

'*  He  had  now  become  a  young  man  of  extreme  fashion,  and  as  much 
rfyandu  in  society  as  the  utmost  and  most  exigent  coveter  of  London  celeb- 
rity could  desire.  He  was,  of  course,  a  member  of  the  clubs,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 
He  was,  in  short,  of  that  oft  described  set  before  whom  all  minor  beaux 
sink  into  insignificance,  or  among  whom  they  eventually  obtain  a  subaltern 
grade,  by  a  sacrifice  of  a  due  portion  of  their  fortune." — Almacks  Revisited, 

BY  the  soul  of  the  great  Malebranche,  who  made  "A  Search 
after  Truth,"  and  discovered  everything  beautiful  except  that 
which  he  searched  for — by  the  soul  of  the  great  Malebranche, 
whom  Bishop  Berkely  found  suffering  under  an  inflammation 
in  the  lungs,  and  very  obligingly  talked  to  death, — an  instance 
of  conversational  powers  worthy  the  envious  emulation  of  all 
great  metaphysicians  and  arguers ;  by  the  soul  of  that  illustri- 
ous man,  it  is  amazing  to  us  what  a  number  of  truths  there  are 
broken  up  into  little  fragments,  and  scattered  here  and  there 
through  the  world.  What  a  magnificent  museum  a  man  might 
make  of  the  precious  minerals,  if  he  would  but  go  out  with  his 
basket  under  his  arm,  and  his  eyes  about  him!  We  ourselves 
picked  up,  this  very  day,  a  certain  small  piece  of  truth,  with 
which  we  propose  to  explain  to  thee,  fair  reader,  a  sinister  turn 
in  the  fortunes  of  Paul.  "Wherever,"  says  a  living  sage,  "you 
see  dignity,  you  may  be  sure  there  is  expense  requisite  to  sup- 
port it."*  So  was  it  with  Paul.  A  young  gentleman  who  was 

*  "  Popular  Fallacies." 


34  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

heir-presumptive  to  the  Mug,  and  who  enjoyed  a  handsome 
person  with  a  cultivated  mind,  was  necessarily  of  a  certain  sta- 
tion of  society,  and  an  object  of  respect  in  the  eyes  of  the 
manoeuvring  mammas  of  the  vicinity  of  Thames  Court.  Many 
were  the  parties  of  pleasure  to  Deptford  and  Greenwich  which 
Paul  found  himself  compelled  to  attend ;  and  we  need  not  re- 
fer our  readers  to  novels  upon  fashionable  life  to  inform  them 
that,  in  good  society,  the  gentlemen  always  pay  for  the  ladies  ! 
Nor  was  this  all  the  expense  to  which  his  expectations  exposed 
him.  A  gentleman  could  scarcely  attend  these  elegant  festivi- 
ties without  devoting  some  little  attention  to  his  dress ;  and  a 
fashionable  tailor  plays  the  deuce  with  one's  yearly  allowance! 

We  who  reside  be  it  known  to  you,  reader,  in  Little  Brittany, 
are  not  very  well  acquainted  with  the  manners  of  the  better 
class  in  St.  James's.  But  there  was  one  great  vice  among  the 
fine  people  about  Thames  Court  which  we  make  no  doubt  does 
not  exist  anywhere  else,  viz.,  these  fine  people  were  always  in 
an  agony  to  seem  finer  than  they  were ;  and  the  more  airs  a 
gentleman  or  a  lady  gave  him  or  herself,  the  more  important 
they  became.  Joe,  the  dog's-meat  man,  had  indeed  got  into 
society,  entirely  from  a  knack  of  saying  impertinent  tilings  to 
everybody ;  and  the  smartest  exclusives  of  the  place,  who  sel- 
dom visited  any  one  where  there  was  not  a  silver  teapot,  used  to 
think  Joe  had  a  great  deal  in  him  because  he  trundled  his  cart 
with  his  head  in  the  air,  and  one  day  gave  the  very  beadle  of 
the  parish  "the  cut  direct.' 

Now  this  desire  to  be  so  exceedingly  fine  not  only  made  the 
society  about  Thames  Court  unpleasant,  but  expensive.  Every 
one  vied  with  his  neighbor;  and  as  the  spirit  of  rivalry  is 
particularly  strong  in  youthful  bosoms,  we  can  scarcely  wonder 
that  it  led  Paul  into  many  extravagances.  The  evil  of  all  cir- 
cles that  profess  to  be  select  is  high  play,  and  the  reason  is  ob- 
vious :  persons  who  have  the  power  to  bestow  on  another  an 
advantage  he  covets  would  rather  sell  it  than  give  it ;  and  Paul, 
gradually  increasing  in  popularity  and  ton,  found  himself,  in 
spite  of  his  classical  education,  no  match  for  the  finished  or, 
rather,  finishing  gentlemen  with  whom  he  began  to  associate. 
His  first  admittance  into  the  select  coterie  of  these  men  of  the 
world  was  formed  at  the  house  of  Bachelor  Bill,  a  person  of 
great  notoriety  among  that  portion  of  the  Mite  which  emphati- 
cally entitles  itself  "Flash !"  However,  as  it  is  our  rigid  inten- 
tion in  this  work  to  portray  at  length  no  episodical  characters 
whatsoever,  we  can  afford  our  readers  but  a  slight  and  rapid 
sketch  of  Bachelor  Bill. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  35 

This  personage  was  of  Devonshire  extraction.  His  mother 
had  kept  the  pleasantest  public-house  in  town,  and  at  her  death 
Bill  succeeded  to  her  property  and  popularity.  All  the  young 
ladies  in  the  neighborhood  of  Fiddler's  Row,  where  he  resided, 
set  their  caps  at  him :  all  the  most  fashionable  prigs,  or  toby- 
men,  sought  to  get  him  into  their  set;  and  the  most  crack 
blowen  in  London  would  have  given  her  ears  at  any  time  for  a 
loving  word  from  Bachelor  Bill.  But  Bill  was  a  long-headed, 
prudent  fellow,  and  of  a  remarkably  cautious  temperament. 
He  avoided  marriage  and  friendship,  viz.,  he  was  neither  plun- 
dered nor  cornuted.  He  was  a  tall,  aristocratic  cove,  of  a 
devilish  neat  address,  and  very  gallant,  in  an  honest  way,  to 
the  blowens.  Like  most  single  men,  being  very  much  the  gen- 
tleman so  far  as  money  was  concerned,  he  gave  them  plenty  of 
"feeds,"  and  from  time  to  time  a  very  agreeable  "hop."  His 
"bingo"*  was  unexceptionable ;  and  as  for  his  "  stark-naked,  "f 
it  was  voted  the  most  brilliant  thing  in  nature.  In  a  very  short 
time,  by  his  blows-out  and  his  bachelorship, — for  single  men 
always  arrive  at  the  apex  of  haut  ton  more  easily  than  mar- 
ried,— he  became  the  very  glass  of  fashion ;  and  many  were  the 
tight  apprentices,  even  at  the  west  end  of  the  town,  who  used 
to  turn  back  in  admiration  of  Bachelor  Bill,  when,  of  a  Sun- 
day afternoon,  he  drove  down  his  varment  gig  to  his  snug  little 
box  on  the  borders  of  Turnham  Green.  Bill's  happiness  was 
not,  however,  wholly  without  alloy.  The  ladies  of  pleasure 
are  always  so  excessively  angry  when  a  man  does  not  make  love 
to  them,  that  there  is  nothing  they  will  not  say  against  him ; 
and  the  fair  matrons  in  the  vicinity  of  Fiddler's  Row  spread  all 
manner  of  unfounded  reports  against  poor  Bachelor  Bill.  By 
degrees,  however, — for,  as  Tacitus  has  said,  doubtless  with 
a  prophetic  eye  to  Bachelor  Bill,  "the  truth  gains  by  delay," — 
these  reports  began  to  die  insensibly  away ;  and  Bill  now  wax- 
ing near  to  the  confines  of  middle  age,  his  friends  comfortably 
settled  for  him  that  he  would  be  Bachelor  Bill  all  his  life.  For 
the  rest,  he  was  an  excellent  fellow ;  gave  his  broken  victuals 
to  the  poor ;  professed  a  liberal  turn  of  thinking,  and  in  all 
quarrels  among  the  blowens  (your  crack  blowens  are  a  quarrel- 
some set ! )  always  took  part  with  the  weakest.  Although  Bill 
affected  to  be  very  select  in  his  company,  he  was  never  forget- 
ful of  his  old  friends :  and  Mrs.  Margery  Lobkins  having  been 
very  good  to  him  when  he  was  a  little  boy  in  a  skeleton  jacket, 
he  invariably  sent  her  a  card  to  his  soirees.  The  good  lady, 
however,  had  not  of  late  years  deserted  her  chimney  corner. 

*  Brandy.  t  Oin. 


36  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

Indeed,  the  racket  of  fashionable  life  was  too  much  for  her 
nerves,  and  the  invitation  had  become  a  customary  form  not 
expected  to  be  acted  upon,  but  not  a  whit  the  less  regularly 
used  for  that  reason.  As  Paul  had  now  attained  his  sixteenth 
year,  and  was  a  fine,  handsome  lad,  the  dame  thought  he  would 
make  an  excellent  representative  of  the  Mug's  mistress;  and 
that,  for  her  protigd,  a  ball  at  Bill's  house  would  be  no  bad 
commencement  of  "Life  in  London."  Accordingly,  she  inti- 
mated to  the  Bachelor  a  wish  to  that  effect,  and  Paul  received 
the  following  invitation  from  Bill : 

"Mr.  William  Duke  gives  a  hop  and  feed  in  a  quiet  way  on 
Monday  next,  and  hops  Mr.  Paul  Lobkins  will  be  of  the 
party.  N.B.  Gentlemen  is  expected  to  come  in  pumps." 

When  Paul  entered,  he  found  Bachelor  Bill  leading  off  the 
ball  to  the  tune  of  "Drops  of  Brandy,"  with  a  young  lady  to 
whom — because  she  had  been  a  strolling  player — the  Ladies 
Patronesses  of  Fiddler's  Row  had  thought  proper  to  behave  with 
a  very  cavalier  civility.  The  good  bachelor  had  no  notion,  as 
he  expressed  it,  of  such  tantrums,  and  he  caused  it  to  be  cir- 
culated among  the  finest  of  the  blowens,  that  "he  expected  all 
who  kicked  their  heels  at  his  house  would  behave  decent  and 
polite  to  young  Mrs.  Dot."  This  intimation,  conveyed  to  the 
ladies  with  all  that  insinuating  polish  for  which  Bachelor  Bill 
was  so  remarkable,  produced  a  notable  effect;  and  Mrs.  Dot, 
being  now  led  off  by  the  flash  Bachelor,  was  overpowered  with 
civilities  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

When  the  dance  was  ended,  Bill  very  politely  shook  hands 
with  Paul,  and  took  an  early  opportunity  of  introducing  him  to 
some  of  the  most  "noted  characters"  of  the  town.  Among, 
these  was  the  smart  Mr.  Allfair,  the  insinuating  Henry  Finish, 
the  merry  Jack  Hookey,  the  knowing  Charles  Trywit,  and  var- 
ious others  equally  noted  for  their  skill  in  living  handsomely 
upon  their  own  brains,  and  the  personals  of  other  people.  To 
say  truth,  Paul,  who  at  that  time  was  an  honest  lad,  was  less 
charmed  than  he  had  anticipated  by  the  conversation  of  those 
chevaliers  of  industry.  He  was  more  pleased  with  the  clever, 
though  self-sufficient  remarks  of  a  gentleman  with  a  remarkably 
fine  head  of  hair,  and  whom  we  would  more  impressively  than 
the  rest  introduce  to  our  reader,  under  the  appellation  of  Mr. 
Edward  Pepper,  generally  termed  Long  Ned.  As  this  worthy 
was  destined  afterwards  to  be  an  intimate  associate  of  Paul, 
our  main  reason  for  attending  the  hop  at  Bachelor  Bill's  is  to 
note,  as  the  importance  of  the  event  deserves,  the  epoch  of  the 
commencement  of  their  acquaintance. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  37 

Long  Ned  and  Paul  happened  to  sit  next  to  each  other  at 
supper,  and  they  conversed  together  so  amicably  that  Paul,  in 
the  hospitality  of  his  heart,  expressed  a  hope  that  "he  should 
see  Mr.  Pepper  at  the  Mug!" 

"Mug — Mug!"  repeated  Pepper,  half  shutting  his  eyes  with 
the  air  of  a  dandy  about  to  be  impertinent;  "Ah,  the  name  of 
a  chapel,  is  it  not?  There's  a  sect  called  the  Muggletonians, 
I  think?" 

"As  to  that,"  said  Paul,  coloring  at  this  insinuation  against 
the  Mug,  "Mrs.  Lobkins  has  no  more  religion  than  her  betters; 
but  the  Mug  is  a  very  excellent  house,  and  frequented  by  the 
best  possible  company." 

"Don't  doubt  it!"  said  Ned.  "Remember  now  that  I  was 
once  there,  and  saw  one  Dummie  Dunnaker — is  not  that  the 
name?  I  recollect  some  years  ago,  when  I  first  came  out, 
that  Dummie  and  I  had  an  adventure  together;  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  it  was  not  the  sort  of  thing  I  would  do  now.  But,  would 
you  believe  it,  Mr.  Paul?  this  pitiful  fellow  was  quite  rude  to 
me  the  only  time  I  ever  met  him  since ;  that  is  to  say,  the  only 
time  I  ever  entered  the  Mug.  I  have  no  notion  of  such  airs  in 
a  merchant — a  merchant  of  rags !  Those  commercial  fellows 
are  getting  quite  insufferable!" 

"You  surprise  me!"  said  Paul.  "Poor  Dummie  is  the  last 
man  to  be  rude.  He  is  as  civil  a  creature  as  ever  lived." 

"Or  sold  a  rag!"  said  Ned.  "Possibly!  Don't  doubt  his 
amiable  qualities  in  the  least.  Pass  the  bingo,  my  good  fellow. 
Stupid  stuff,  this  dancing!" 

"Devilish  stupid!"  echoed  Harry  Finish,  across  the  table. 
"Suppose  we  adjourn  to  Fish  Lane,  and  rattle  the  ivories! 
What  say  you,  Mr.  Lobkins?" 

Afraid  of  the  "ton's  stern  laugh,  which  scarce  the  proud 
philosopher  can  scorn,"  and  not  being  very  partial  to  danc- 
ing, Paul  assented  to  the  proposition ;  and  a  little  party,  con- 
sisting of  Harry  Finish,  Allfair,  Long  Ned,  and  Mr.  Hookey, 
adjourned  to  Fish  Lane,  where  there  was  a  club,  celebrated 
among  men  who  live  by  their  wits,  at  which  "lush"  and  "baccy" 
were  gratuitously  sported  in  the  most  magnificent  manner. 
Here  the  evening  passed  away  very  delightfully,  and  Paul 
went  home  without  a  "brad"  in  his  pocket. 

From  that  time  Paul's  visits  to  Fish  Lane  became  unfortu- 
nately regular ;  and  in  a  very  short  period,  we  grieve  to  say, 
Paul  became  that  distinguished  character,  a  gentleman  of  three 
outs — "out  of  pocket,  out  of  elbows,  and  out  of  credit."  The 
only  two  persons  whom  he  found  willing  to  accommodate  him 


38  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

with  a  slight  loan,  as  the  advertisements  signed  X.  Y.  have  it, 
were  Mr.  Dummie  Dunnaker  and  Mr.  Pepper,  surnamed  the 
Long.  The  latter,  however,  while  he  obliged  the  heir  to  the 
Mug,  never  condescended  to  enter  that  noted  place  of  resort; 
and  the  former,  whenever  he  good-naturedly  opened  his  purse- 
strings,  did  it  with  a  hearty  caution  to  shun  the  acquaintance 
of  Long  Ned.  "A  parson,"  said  Dummie,  "of  wery  danger- 
ous morals,  and  not  by  no  manner  of  means  a  fit  sociate 
for  a  young  gemman  of  cracter  like  leetle  Paul!"  So  ear- 
nest was  this  caution,  and  so  especially  pointed  at  Long  Ned, 
although  the  company  of  Mr.  Allfair  or  Mr.  Finish  might  be 
said  to  be  no  less  prejudicial,  that  it  is  probable  that  stately 
fastidiousness  of  manner,  which  Lord  Normanby  rightly  ob- 
serves, in  one  of  his  excellent  novels,  makes  so  many  ene- 
mies in  the  world,  and  which  sometimes  characterized  the  be- 
havior of  Long  Ned,  especially  towards  the  men  of  commerce, 
was  a  main  reason  why  Dummie  was  so  acutely  and  peculiarly 
alive  to  the  immoralities  of  that  lengthy  gentleman.  At  the 
same  time  we  must  observe,  that  when  Paul,  remembering  what 
Pepper  had  said  respecting  his  early  adventure  with  Mr.  Dun- 
naker, repeated  it  to  the  merchant,  Dummie  could  not  conceal 
a  certain  confusion,  though  he  merely  remarked,  with  a  sort  of 
laugh,  that  it  was  not  worth  speaking  about ;  and  it  appeared 
evident  to  Paul  that  something  unpleasant  to  the  man  of  rags, 
which  was  not  shared  by  the  unconscious  Pepper,  lurked  in  the 
reminiscence  of  their  past  acquaintance.  Howbeit,  the  cir- 
cumstance glided  from  Paul's  attention  the  moment  after- 
wards ;  and  he  paid,  we  are  concerned  to  say,  equally  little 
heed  to  the  cautions  against  Ned  with  which  Dummie  regaled 
him. 

Perhaps  (for  we  must  now  direct  a  glance  towards  his  domes- 
tic concerns)  one  great  cause  which  drove  Paul  to  Fish  Lane 
was  the  uncomfortable  life  he  led  at  home.  For  though  Mrs. 
Lobkins  was  extremely  fond  of  her  protigt,  yet  she  was  pos- 
sessed, as  her  customers  emphatically  remarked,  "of  the  devil's 
own  temper" ;  and  her  native  coarseness  never  having  been 
softened  by  those  pictures  of  gay  society  which  had,  in  many  a 
novel  and  comic  farce,  refined  the  temperament  of  the  roman- 
tic Paul,  her  manner  of  venting  her  maternal  reproaches  was 
certainly  not  a  little  revolting  to  a  lad  of  some  delicacy  of  feel- 
ing. Indeed,  it  often  occurred  to  him  to  leave  her  house  alto- 
gether, and  seek  his  fortunes  alone,  after  the  manner  of  the  in- 
genuous Gil  Bias,  or  the  enterprising  Roderick  Random ;  and 
this  idea,  though  conquered  and  reconquered,  gradually  swelled 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  39 

and  increased  at  his  heart,  even  as  swelleth  that  hairy  ball 
found  in  the  stomach  of  some  suffering  heifer  after  its  decease. 
Among  these  projects  of  enterprise,  the  reader  will  hereafter 
notice,  that  an  early  vision  of  the  Green  Forest  Cave,  in  which 
Turpin  was  accustomed,  with  a  friend,  a  ham,  and  a  wife,  to 
conceal  himself,  flitted  across  his  mind.  At  this  time  he  did 
not,  perhaps,  incline  to  the  mode  of  life  practised  by  the  hero 
of  the  roads ;  but  he  certainly  clung  not  the  less  fondly  to  the 
notion  of  the  cave. 

The  melancholy  flow  of  our  hero's  life  was  now,  however, 
about  to  be  diverted  by  an  unexpected  turn,  and  the  crude 
thoughts  of  boyhood  to  burst,  "like  Ghilan's  Giant  Palm,"  into 
the  fruit  of  a  manly  resolution. 

Among  the  prominent  features  of  Mrs.  Lobkins's  mind  was 
a  sovereign  contempt  for  the  unsuccessful ;  the  imprudence  and 
ill-luck  of  Paul  occasioned  her  as  much  scorn  as  compassion. 
And  when,  for  the  third  time  within  a  week,  he  stood,  with  a 
rueful  visage  and  with  vacant  pockets,  by  the  dame's  great 
chair,  requesting  an  additional  supply,  the  tides  of  her  wrath 
swelled  into  overflow. 

"Look  you,  my  kinchin  cove,"  said  she,  and  in  order  to  give 
peculiar  dignity  to  her  aspect,  she  put  on  while  she  spoke  a 
huge  pair  of  tin  spectacles,  "if  so  be  as  how  you  goes  for  to 
think  as  how  I  shall  go  for  to  supply  your  wicious  necessities, 
you  will  find  yourself  planted  in  Queer  Street.  Blow  me  tight, 
if  I  gives  you  another  mag." 

"But  I  owe  Long  Ned  a  guinea,"  said  Paul;  "and  Dummie 
Dunnaker  lent  me  three  crowns.  It  ill  becomes  your  heir  ap- 
parent, my  dear  dame,  to  fight  shy  of  his  debts  of  honor." 

"Taradididdle,  don't  think  for  to  wheedle  me  with  your 
debts  and  your  honor,"  said  the  dame  in  a  passion.  "Long 
Ned  is  as  long  in  the  forks  (fingers)  as  he  is  in  the  back:  may 
Old  Harry  fly  off  with  him!  And  as  for  Dummie  Dunnaker, 
I  wonders  how  you,  brought  up  such  a  swell,  and  blest  with  the 
wery  best  of  hedications,  can  think  of  putting  up  with  such 
wulgar  sociates !  I  tells  you  what,  Paul,  you'll  please  to  break 
with  them,  smack  and  at  once,  or  devil  a  brad  you'll  ever  get 
from  Peg  Lobkins."  So  saying,  the  old  lady  turned  round  in 
her  chair,  and  helped  herself  to  a  pipe  of  tobacco. 

Paul  walked  twice  up  and  down  the  apartment,  and  at  last 
stopped  opposite  the  dame's  chair:  he  was  a  youth  of  high 
spirit,  and  though  he  was  warm-hearted,  and  had  a  love  for 
Mrs.  Lobkins,  which  her  care  and  affection  for  him  well  de- 
served, yet  he  was  rough  in  temper,  and  not  constantly  smooth 


40  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

in  speech :  it  is  true  that  his  heart  smote  him  afterwards,  when- 
ever he  had  said  anything  to  annoy  Mrs.  Lobkins;  and  he  was 
always  the  first  to  seek  a  reconciliation ;  but  warm  words  pro- 
duce cold  respect,  and  sorrow  for  the  past  is  not  always  effica- 
cious in  amending  the  future.  Paul  then,  puffed  up  with  the  van- 
ity of  his  genteel  education,  and  the  friendship  of  Long  Ned 
(who  went  to  Ranelagh,  and  wore  silver  clocked  stockings), 
stopped  opposite  to  Mrs.  Lobkins'  chair,  and  said  with  great 
solemnity: 

"Mr.  Pepper,  madam,  t»ays  very  properly  that  I  must  have 
money  to  support  myself  like  a  gentleman  :  and  as  you  won't 
give  it  to  me,  I  am  determined,  with  many  thanks  for  your  past 
favors,  to  throw  myself  on  the  world  and  seek  my  fortune." 

If  Paul  was  of  no  oily  and  bland  temper,  dame  Margaret 
Lobkins,  it  has  been  said,  had  no  advantage  on  that  score.  We 
dare  say  the  reader  has  observed  that  nothing  so  enrages  per- 
sons on  whom  one  depends  as  any  expressed  determination  of 
seeking  independence.  Gazing,  therefore,  for  one  moment  at 
the  open  but  resolute  countenance  of  Paul,  while  all  the  blood 
of  her  veins  seemed  gathering  in  fire  and  scarlet  to  her  enlarg- 
ing cheeks,  Dame  Lobkins  said : 

"Ifeaks,  Master  Pride-in-duds!  seek  your  fortune  yourself, 
will  you  ?  This  comes  of  my  bringing  you  up,  and  letting  you 
eat  the  bread  of  idleness  and  charity,  you  toad  of  a  thousand! 
Take  that  and  be  d — d  to  you!"  and,  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word,  the  tube  which  she  had  withdrawn  from  her  mouth,  in 
order  to  utter  her  gentle  rebuke,  whizzed  through  the  air, 
grazed  Paul's  cheek,  and  finished  its  earthly  career  by  coming 
in  violent  contact  with  the  right  eye  of  Dummie  Dunnaker,  who 
at  that  exact  moment  entered  the  room. 

Paul  had  winced  for  a  moment  to  avoid  the  missive — in  the 
next  he  stood  perfectly  upright ;  his  cheeks  glowed,  his  chest 
swelled ;  and  the  entrance  of  Dummie  Dunnaker,  who  was  thus 
made  the  spectator  of  the  affront  he  had  received,  stirred  his 
blood  into  a  deeper  anger  and  a  more  bitter  self-humiliation :  all 
his  former  resolutions  of  departure,  all  the  hard  words,  the 
coarse  allusions,  the  practical  insults  he  had  at  any  time  re- 
ceived, rushed  upon  him  at  once.  He  merely  cast  one  look  at 
the  old  woman,  whose  rage  was  now  half  subsided,  and  turned 
slowly  and  in  silence  to  the  door. 

There  is  often  something  alarming  in  an  occurrence,  merely 
because  it  is  that  which  we  least  expect:  the  astute  Mrs.  Lob- 
kins, remembering  the  hardy  temper  and  fiery  passions  of  Paul, 
had  expected  some  burst  of  rage,  some  vehement  reply ;  and 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  4! 

when  she  caught  with  one  wandering  eye  his  parting  look,  and 
saw  him  turn  so  passively  and  mutely  to  the  door,  her  heart 
misgave  her,  she  raised  herself  from  her  chair,  and  made 
towards  him.  Unhappily  for  her  chance  of  reconciliation,  she 
had  that  day  quaffed  more  copiously  of  the  bowl  than  usual, 
and  the  signs  of  intoxication  visible  in  her  uncertain  gait,  her 
meaningless  eye,  her  vacant  leer,  her  ruby  cheek,  all  inspired 
Paul  with  feelings  which,  at  the  moment,  converted  resentment 
into  something  very  much  like  aversion.  He  sprang  from  her 
grasp  to  the  threshold.  "Where  be  you  going,  you  imp  of  the 
world?"  cried  the  dame.  "Get  in  with  you,  and  say  no  more 
on  the  matter ;  be  a  bob-cull — drop  the  bullies,  and  you  shall 
have  the  blunt!" 

But  Paul  heeded  not  this  invitation. 

"I  will  eat  the  bread  of  idleness  and  charity  no  longer," 
said  he  sullenly.  "Good-by,  and  if  ever  I  can  pay  you  what 
I  have  cost  you,  I  will!" 

He  turned  away  as  he  spoke ;  and  the  dame,  kindling  with 
resentment  at  his  unseemly  return  to  her  proffered  kindness, 
halloed  after  him,  and  bade  that  dark-colored  gentleman  who 
keeps  the  fire-office  below  go  along  with  him. 

Swelling  with  anger,  pride,  shame,  and  a  half-joyous  feeling 
of  emancipated  independence,  Paul  walked  on  he  knew  not 
whither,  with  his  head  in  the  air,  and  his  legs  marshalling  them- 
selves into  a  military  gait  of  defiance.  He  had  not  proceeded 
far,  before  he  heard  his  name  uttered  behind  him ;  he  turned, 
and  saw  the  rueful  face  of  Dummie  Dunnaker. 

Very  inoffensively  had  that  respectable  person  been  employed 
during  the  last  part  of  the  scene  we  have  described,  in  caress- 
ing his  afflicted  eye,  and  muttering  philosophical  observations 
on  the  danger  incurred  by  all  those  who  are  acquainted  with 
ladies  of  a  choleric  temperament :  when  Mrs.  Lobkins,  turning 
round  after  Paul's  departure,  and  seeing  the  pitiful  person  of 
that  Dummie  Dunnaker,  whose  name  she  remembered  Paul 
had  mentioned  in  his  opening  speech,  and  whom,  therefore, 
with  an  illogical  confusion  of  ideas,  she  considered  a  party  in 
the  late  dispute,  exhausted  upon  him  all  that  rage  which  it  was 
necessary  for  her  comfort  that  she  should  unburthen  somewhere. 

She  seized  the  little  man  by  the  collar — the  tenderest  of  all 
places  in  gentlemen  similarly  circumstanced  with  regard  to  the 
ways  of  life — and  giving  him  a  blow,  which  took  effect  on  his 
other  and  hitherto  undamaged  eye,  cried  out,  "I'll  teach  you, 
you  blood-sucker  (i.e.,  parasite),  to  spunge  upon  those  as  has 
expectations!  I'll  teach  you  to  cozen  the  heir  of  the  Mug,  you 


42  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

snivelling,  whey-faced  ghost  of  a  farthing  rushlight!  What! 
you'll  lend  my  Paul  three  crowns,  will  you ;  when  you  knows 
as  how  you  told  me  you  could  not  pay  me  a  pitiful  tizzy?  Oh, 
you're  a  queer  one  I  warrants;  but  you  won't  queer  Margery 
Lobkins.  Out  of  my  ken,  you  cur  of  the  mange!  out  of  my 
ken !  and  if  ever  I  claps  my  sees  on  you  again,  or  if  ever  7 
knows  as  how  you  makes  a  flat  of  my  Paul,  blow  me  tight,  but 
I'll  weave  you  a  hempen  collar:  I'll  hang  you,  you  dog,  I  will. 
What!  you  will  answer  me,  will  you?  O  you  viper,  budge,  and 
begone!" 

It  was  in  vain  that  Dummie  protested  his  innocence.  A  vio- 
lent coup  de pied  broke  off  all  further  parlance.  He  made  a 
clear  house  of  the  Mug;  and  the  landlady  thereof,  tottering 
back  to  her  elbow-chair,  sought  out  another  pipe,  and,  like  all 
imaginative  persons  when  the  world  goes  wrong  with  them,  con- 
soled herself  for  the  absence  of  realities  by  the  creations  of 
smoke. 

Meanwhile,  Dummie  Dunnaker,  muttering  and  murmuring 
bitter  fancies,  overtook  Paul,  and  accused  that  youth  of  having 
been  the  occasion  of  the  injuries  he  had  just  undergone.  Paul 
was  not  at  that  moment  in  the  humor  best  adapted  for  the  pa- 
tient bearing  of  accusations ;  he  answered  Mr.  Dunnaker  very 
shortly;  and  that  respectable  individual,  still  smarting  under 
his  bruises,  replied  with  equal  tartness.  Words  grew  high,  and 
at  length  Paul,  desirous  of  concluding  the  conference,  clenched 
his  fist,  and  told  the  redoubted  Dummie  that  he  would  "knock 
him  down."  There  is  something  peculiarly  harsh  and  stun- 
ning in  those  three  hard,  wirey,  sturdy,  stubborn  monosyllables. 
Their  very  sound  makes  you  double  your  fist,  if  you  are  a  hero ; 
or  your  pace,  if  you  are  a  peaceable  man.  They  produced  an 
instant  effect  upon  Dummie  Dunnaker,  aided  as  they  were  by 
the  effect  of  an  athletic  and  youthful  figure,  already  fast  ap- 
proaching to  the  height  of  six  feet,  a  flushed  cheek,  and  an  eye 
that  bespoke  both  passion  and  resolution.  The  rag-merchant's 
voice  sunk  at  once,  and  with  the  countenance  of  a  wronged 
Cassius  he  whimpered  forth : 

"Knock  me  down!  O  leetle  Paul,  vot  vicked  vhids  are 
those !  Vot !  Dummie  Dunnaker  as  has  dandled  you  on  his 
knee  mony's  a  time  and  oft!  Vy,  the  cove's  art  is  as  ard  as 
junk,  and  as  proud  as  a  gardener's  dog  with  a  nosegay  tied  to 
his  tail."  This  pathetic  remonstrance  softened  Paul's  anger. 

"Well,  Dummie,"  said  he,  laughing,  "I  did  not  mean  to 
hurt  you,  and  there's  an  end  of  it ;  and  I  am  very  sorry  for  the 
dame's  ill  conduct:  and  so  I  wish  you  a  good-morning." 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  43 

"Vy,  vere  be  you  trotting  to,  leetle  Paul?"  said  Dummie, 
grasping  him  by  the  tail  of  the  coat. 

"The  deuce  a  bit  I  know,"  answered  our  hero;  "but  I 
think  I  shall  drop  a  call  on  Long  Ned." 

"Avast  there!"  said  Dummie,  speaking  under  his  breath; 
"if  so  be  as  you  von't  blab,  I'll  tell  you  a  bit  of  a  secret.  I 
heered  as  ow  Long  Ned  started  for  Hampshire  this  werry 
morning  on  a  toby  consarn!* 

"Ha!"  said  Paul,  "then  hang  me  if  I  know  what  to  do!" 
As  he  uttered  these  words,  a  more  thorough  sense  of  his  desti- 
tution (if  he  persevered  in  leaving  the  Mug)  than  he  had  hith- 
erto felt  rushed  upon  him ;  for  Paul  had  designed  for  a  while 
to  throw  himself  on  the  hospitality  of  his  Patagonian  friend, 
and  now  that  he  found  that  friend  was  absent  from  London, 
and  on  so  dangerous  an  expedition,  he  was  a  little  puzzled  what 
to  do  with  that  treasure  of  intellect  and  wisdom  which  he  car- 
ried about  upon  his  legs.  Already  he  had  acquired  sufficient 
penetration  (for  Charles  Trywit  and  Harry  Finish  were  excel- 
lent masters  for  initiating  a  man  into  the  knowledge  of  the 
world)  to  perceive  that  a-person,  however  admirably  may  be 
his  qualities,  does  not  readily  find  a  welcome  without  a  penny 
in  his  pocket.  In  the  neighborhood  of  Thames  Court  he  had, 
indeed,  many  acquaintances;  but  the  fineness  of  his  language, 
acquired  from  his  education,  and  the  elegance  of  his  air,  in 
which  he  attempted  to  blend,  in  happy  association,  the  gallant 
effrontery  of  Mr.  Long  Ned  with  the  graceful  negligence  of  Mr. 
Augustus  Tomlinson,  had  made  him  many  enemies  among  those 
acquaintances;  and  he  was  not  willing, — so  great  was  our  hero's 
pride, — to  throw  himself  on  the  chance  of  their  welcome,  or  to 
publish,  as  it  were,  his  exiled  and  crestfallen  state.  As  for 
those  boon  companions  who  had  assisted  him  in  making  a  wil- 
derness of  his  pockets,  he  had  already  found  that  that  was  the 
only  species  of  assistance  which  they  were  willing  to  render 
him :  in  a  word,  he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  conjecture  in 
what  quarter  he  should  find  the  benefits  of  bed  and  board. 
While  he  stood  with  his  finger  to  his  lip,  undecided  and  mus- 
ing, but  fully  resolved  at  least  on  one  thing — not  to  return  to 
the  Mug, — little  Dummie,  who  was  a  good-natured  fellow  at 
the  bottom,  peered  up  in  his  face,  and  said,  "Vy,  Paul,  my 
kid,  you  looks  down  in  the  chops:  cheer  up,  care  killed  a 
cat !  " 

Observing  that  this  appropriate  and  encouraging  fact  of  nat- 
ural history  did  not  lessen  the  cloud  upon  Paul's  brow,  the 

*  Highway  expedition. 


44  PAUL  CLIFFORD. 

acute  Dummie  Dunnaker  proceeded  at  once  to  the  grand  pana- 
cea for  all  evils,  in  his  own  profound  estimation. 

"Paul,  my  ben  cull,"  said  he,  with  a  knowing  wink,  and 
nudging  the  young  gentleman  in  the  left  side,  "vot  do  you  say 
to  a  drop  o'  blue  ruin?  or,  as  you  likes  to  be  conish  (genteel), 
I  doesn't  care  if  I  sports  you  a  glass  of  port!"  While  Dunna- 
ker was  uttering  this  invitation,  a  sudden  reminiscence  flashed 
across  Paul :  he  bethought  him  at  once  of  Mac  Grawler ;  and 
he  resolved  forthwith  to  repair  to  the  abode  of  that  illustrious 
sage,  and  petition  at  least  for  accommodation  for  the  approach- 
ing night.  So  soon  as  he  had  come  to  this  determination,  he 
shook  off  the  grasp  of  the  amiable  Dummie,  and  refusing,  with 
many  thanks,  his  hospitable  invitation,  requested  him  to  abstract 
from  the  dame's  house,  and  lodge  within  his  own,  until  called 
for,  such  articles  of  linen  and  clothing  as  belonged  to  Paul,  and 
could  easily  be  laid  hold  of,  during  one  of  the  matron's  evening 
siestas,  by  the  shrewd  Dunnaker.  The  merchant  promised 
that  the  commission  should  be  speedily  executed ;  and  Paul, 
shaking  hands  with  him,  proceeded  to  the  mansion  of  Mac 
Grawler. 

We  must  now  go  back  somewhat  in  the  natural  course  of  our 
narrative,  and  observe  that,  among  the  minor  causes  which  had 
conspired  with  the  great  one  of  gambling  to  bring  our  excellent 
Paul  to  his  present  situation,  was  his  intimacy  with  Mac  Grawl- 
er; for  when  Paul's  increasing  years  and  roving  habits  put  an 
end  to  the  sage's  instructions,  there  was  thereby  lopped  off 
from  the  preceptor's  finances  the  weekly  sum  of  two  shillings 
and  sixpence,  as  well  as  the  freedom  of  the  dame's  cellar  and 
larder ;  and  as,  in  the  reaction  of  feeling,  and  the  perverse 
course  of  human  affairs,  people  generally  repent  the  most  of 
those  actions  once  the  most  ardently  incurred ;  so  poor  Mrs. 
Lobkins,  imagining  that  Paul's  irregularities  were  entirely 
owing  to  the  knowledge  he  had  acquired  from  Mac  Grawler's 
instructions,  grievously  upbraided  herself  for  her  former  folly, 
in  seeking  for  a  superior  education  for  her  proie'ge ;  nay,  she 
even  vented  upon  the  sacred  head  of  Mac  Grawler  herself  her 
dissatisfaction  at  the  results  of  his  instructions.  In  like  man- 
ner, when  a  man  who  can  spell  comes  to  be  hanged,  the  anti- 
educationists  accuse  the  spelling-book  of  his  murder.  High 
words  between  the  admirer  of  ignorant  innocence  and  the  propa- 
gator of  intellectual  science  ensued,  which  ended  in  Mac 
Grawler's  final  expulsion  from  the  Mug. 

There  are  some  young  gentlemen  of  the  present  day  addicted 
to  the  adoption  of  Lord  Byron's  poetry,  with  the  alteration  of 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  45 

new  rhymes,  who  are  pleased  graciously  to  inform  us  that  they 
are  born  to  be  the  ruin  of  all  those  who  love  them :  an  interest- 
ing fact,  doubtless,  but  which  they  might  as  well  keep  to  them- 
selves. It  would  seem,  by  the  contents  of  this  chapter,  as  if  the 
same  misfortune  were  destined  to  Paul.  The  exile  of  Mac 
Grawler,  the  insults  offered  to  Dummie  Dunnaker — alike  occa- 
sioned by  him — appear  to  sanction  that  opinion.  Unfortun- 
ately, though  Paul  was  a  poet,  he  was  not  much  of  a  sentimen- 
talist ;  and  he  has  never  given  us  the  edifying  ravings  of  his 
remorse  on  those  subjects.  But  Mac  Grawler,  like  Dunnaker, 
was  resolved  that  our  hero  should  perceive  the  curse  of  his 
fatality ;  and  as  he  still  retained  some  influence  over  the  mind 
of  his  quondam  pupil,  his  accusations  against  Paul,  as  the  origin 
of  his  banishment,  were  attended  with  a  greater  success  than 
were  the  complaints  of  Dummie  Dunnaker  on  a  similar  calam- 
ity. Paul,  who,  like  most  people  who  are  good  for  nothing,  had 
an  excellent  heart,  was  exceedingly  grieved  at  Mac  Crawler's 
banishment  on  his  account :  and  he  endeavored  to  atone  by 
such  pecuniary  consolations  as  he  was  enabled  to  offer.  These 
Mac  Grawler  (purely,  we  may  suppose,  from  a  benevolent  de- 
sire to  lessen  the  boy's  remorse)  scrupled  not  to  accept ;  and 
thus,  so  similar  often  are  the  effects  of  virtue  and  of  vice,  the 
exemplary  Mac  Grawler  conspired  with  the  unprincipled  Long 
Ned  and  the  heartless  Henry  Finish  in  producing  that  unenvi- 
able state  of  vacuity  which  now  saddened  over  the  pockets  of 
Paul. 

As  our  hero  was  walking  slowly  towards  the  sage's  abode, 
depending  on  his  gratitude  and  friendship  for  a  temporary  shel- 
ter, one  of  those  lightning  flashes  of  thought  which  often  illu- 
mine the  profoundest  abyss  of  affliction  darted  across  his  mind. 
Recalling  the  image  of  the  critic,  he  remembered  that  he  had 
seen  that  ornament  of  "The  Asinaeum"  receive  sundry  sums 
for  his  critical  lucubrations. 

"Why,"  said  Paul,  seizing  on  that  fact,  and  stopping  short 
in  the  street,  "why  should  I  not  turn  critic  myself." 

The  only  person  to  whom  one  ever  puts  a  question  with  a 
tolerable  certainty  of  receiving  a  satisfactory  answer  is  one's 
self.  The  moment  Paul  started  this  luminous  suggestion,  it 
appeared  to  him  that  he  had  discovered  the  mines  of  Potosi. 
Burning  with  impatience  to  discuss  with  the  great  Mac  Grawler 
the  feasibility  of  his  project,  he  quickened  his  pace  almost  into 
a  run,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes,  having  only  overthrown  one 
chimney-sweeper  and  two  applewomen  by  the  way,  he  arrived 
at  the  sage's  door. 


46  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 


CHAPTER  V. 

FORTUNE  had  smiled  upon  Mr.  Mac  Grawler  since  he  first 
undertook  the  tuition  of  Mrs.  Lobkins's  proteg&.  He  now  in- 
habited a  second-floor,  and  defied  the  sheriff  and  his  evil 
spirits.  It  was  at  the  dusk  of  evening  that  Paul  found  him  at 
home  and  alone. 

Before  the  mighty  man  stood  a  pot  of  London  porter ;  a  can- 
dle, with  an  unregarded  wick,  shed  its  solitary  light  upon  his 
labors ;  and  an  infant  cat  played  sportively  at  his  learned  feet, 
beguiling  the  weary  moments  with  the  remnants  of  the  spiral 
cap  wherewith,  instead  of  laurel,  the  critic  had  hitherto  adorned 
his  brows.  So  soon  as  Mac  Grawler,  piercing  through  the 
gloomy  mist  which  hung  about  the  chamber,  perceived  the 
person  of  the  intruder,  a  frown  settled  upon  his  brow. 

"Have  I  not  told  you,  youngster!"  he  growled,  "never  to 
enter  a  gentleman's  room  without  knocking?  I  tell  you,  sir, 
that  manners  are  no  less  essential  to  human  happiness  than  vir- 
tue ;  wherefore,  never  disturb  a  gentleman  in  his  avocations, 
and  sit  yourself  down  without  molesting  the  cat!" 

Paul,  who  knew  that  his  respected  tutor  disliked  any  one  to 
trace  the  source  of  the  wonderful  spirit  which  he  infused  into 
his  critical  compositions,  affected  not  to  perceive  the  pewter 
Hippocrene,  and  with  many  apologies  for  his  want  of  prepara- 
tory politeness,  seated  himself  as  directed.  It  was  then  that 
the  following  edifying  conversation  ensued. 

"The  ancients,"  quoth  Paul,  "were  very  great  men,  Mr. 
Mac  Grawler." 

"They  were  so,  sir,"  returned  the  critic;  "we  make  it  a  rule 
in  our  profession  to  assert  that  fact ! ' ' 

"But,  sir,"  said  Paul,  "they  were  wrong  now  and  then." 

"Never,  Ignoramus;  never!" 

"They  praised  poverty,  Mr.  Mac  Grawler!"  said  Paul,  with 
a  sigh. 

"Hem!"  quoth  the  critic,  a  little  staggered,  but  presently 
recovering  his  characteristic  acumen,  he  observed: 

"It  is  true,  Paul;  but  that  was  the  poverty  of  other  people." 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  "Criticism,"  renewed  Paul,  "must 
be  a  most  difficult  art." 

"A-hem!  And  what  art  is  there,  sir,  that  is  not  difficult; 
at  least,  to  become  a  master  of?" 

"True,"  sighed  Paul;   "or  else — " 

"Or  what  else,  boy?"  repeated  Mr.   Mac  Grawler,   seeing 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  47 

that  Paul  hesitated,  either  from  fear  of  his  superior  knowledge, 
as  the  critic's  vanity  suggested,  or  from  (what  was  equally 
likely)  want  of  a  word  to  express  his  meaning. 

"Why,  I  was  thinking,  sir,"  said  Paul,  with  that  desper- 
ate courage  which  gives  a  distinct  and  loud  intonation  to  the 
voice  of  all  who  set,  or  think  they  set,  their  fate  upon  a  cast: 
"I  was  thinking  that  I  should  like  to  become  a  critic 
myself!" 

"W — h — e — w!"  whistled  Mac  Crawler,  elevating  his  eye- 
brows; "w — h — e — w!  great  ends  have  come  of  less  begin- 
nings!" 

Encouraging  as  this  assertion  was,  coming  as  it  did  from  the 
lips  of  so  great  a  man  and  so  great  a  critic,  at  the  very  moment 
too  when  nothing  short  of  an  anathema  against  arrogance  and 
presumption  was  expected  to  issue  from  those  portals  of  wis- 
dom :  yet,  such  is  the  fallacy  of  all  human  hopes,  that  Paul's  of 
a  surety  would  have  been  a  little  less  elated,  had  he,  at  the 
same  time  his  ears  drank  in  the  balm  of  these  gracious  words, 
been  able  to  have  dived  into  the  source  whence  they  emanated. 

"Know  thyself!'!  was  a  precept  the  sage  Mac  Crawler  had 
endeavored  to  obey:  consequently  the  result  of  his  obedience 
was,  that  even  by  himself  he  was  better  known  than  trusted. 
Whatever  he  might  appear  to  others,  he  had  in  reality  no  vain 
faith  in  the  infallibility  of  his  own  talents  and  resources ;  as 
well  might  a  butcher  deem  himself  a  perfect  anatomist  from  the 
frequent  amputation  of  legs  of  mutton,  as  the  critic  of  "The 
Asinseum"  have  laid  "the  flattering  unction  to  his  soul"  that 
he  was  really  skilled  in  the  art  of  criticism,  or  even  acquainted 
with  one  of  its  commonest  rules,  because  he  could  with  all 
speed  cut  up  and  disjoint  any  work,  from  the  smallest  to  the 
greatest,  from  the  most  superficial  to  the  most  superior;  and 
thus  it  was  that  he  never  had  the  want  of  candor  to  deceive 
himself  as  to  his  own  talents.  Paul's  wish,  therefore,  was  no 
sooner  expressed,  than  a  vague  but  golden  scheme  of  future 
profit  illumed  the  brain  of  Mac  Crawler — in  a  word,  he  resolved 
that  Paul  should  henceforward  share  the  labor  of  his  critiques ; 
and  that  he,  Mac  Crawler,  should  receive  the  whole  profits  in 
return  for  the  honor  thereby  conferred  on  his  coadjutor. 

Looking,  therefore,  at  our  hero  with  a  benignant  air,  Mr. 
Mac  Crawler  thus  continued: 

"Yes,  I  repeat,  great  ends  have  come  from  less  beginnings! 
Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day, — and  I,  Paul,  I  myself  was  not 
always  the  editor  of  'The  Asinseum.'  You  say  wisely,  criti- 
cism is  a  great  science — a  very  great  science — and  it  may  be 


48  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

divided  into  three  branches;  viz.  'to  tickle,  to  slash,  and  to 
plaster.'  In  each  of  these  three,  I  believe  without  vanity,  I  am 
a  profound  adept!  I  will  initiate  you  into  all.  Your  labors 
shall  begin  this  very  evening.  I  have  three  works  on  my  table, 
they  must  be  despatched  by  to-morrow  night ;  I  will  take  the 
most  arduous,  I  abandon  to  you  the  others.  The  three  consist 
of  a  Romance,  an  Epic  in  twelve  books,  and  an  Inquiry  into 
the  Human  Mind,  in  three  volumes;  I,  Paul,  will  tickle  the 
Romance,  you  this  very  evening  shall  plaster  the  Epic  and  slash 
the  Inquiry!" 

"Heavens,  Mr.  Mac  Grawler!"  cried  Paul,  in  consternation 
"what  do  you  mean?  I  should  never  be  able  to  read  an  epic 
in  twelve  books,  and  I  should  fall  asleep  in  the  first  page  of  the 
Inquiry.  No,  no,  leave  me  the  romance,  and  take  the  other 
two  under  your  own  protection!" 

Although  great  genius  is  always  benevolent,  Mr.  Mac  Grawlei 
could  not  restrain  a  smile  of  ineffable  contempt  at  the  simplic- 
ity of  his  pupil. 

"Know,  young  gentleman,"  said  he  solemnly,  "that  the 
romance  in  question  must  be  tickled ;  it  is  not  given  to  raw  be- 
ginners to  conquer  that  great  mystery  of  our  science." 

"Before  we  proceed  farther,  explain  the  words  of  the  art," 
said  Paul  impatiently. 

"Listen,  then,"  rejoined  Mac  Grawler;  and  as  he  spoke  the 
candle  cast  an  awful  glimmering  on  his  countenance,  "To  slash 
is,  speaking  grammatically,  to  employ  the  accusative,  or  accus- 
ing case ;  you  must  cut  up  your  book  right  and  left,  top  and 
bottom,  root  and  branch.  To  plaster  a  book,  is  to  employ  the 
dative,  or  giving  case,  and  you  must  bestow  on  the  work  all  the 
superlatives  in  the  language ;  you  must  lay  on  your  praise  thick 
and  thin,  and  not  leave  a  crevice  untrowelled.  But  to  tickle, 
sir,  is  a  comprehensive  word,  and  it  comprises  all  the  infinite 
varieties  that  fill  the  interval  between  slashing  and  plastering. 
This  is  the  nicety  of  the  art,  and  you  can  only  acquire  it  by 
practice;  a  few  examples  will  suffice  to  give  you  an  idea  of  its 
delicacy. 

"We  will  begin  with  the  encouraging  tickle.  'Although  this 
work  is  :f ull  of  faults ;  though  the  characters  are  unnatural,  the 
plot  utterly  improbable,  the  thoughts  hackneyed,  and  the  style 
ungrammatical ;  yet  we  would  by  no  means  discourage  the 
author  from  proceeding ;  and  in  the  mean  while  we  confidently 
recommend  his  work  to  the  attention  of  the  reading  public.' 

"Take,  now,  the  advising  tickle. 

"  'There  is  a  good  deal  of  merit  in  these  little  volumes,  al- 


CLIFFORD.  49 

though  we  must  regret  the  evident  haste  in  which  they  were 
written.  The  author  might  do  better;  we  recommend  him 
a  study  of  the  best  writers,' — then  conclude  by  a  Latin 
quotation,  which  you  may  take  from  one  of  the  mottoes  in  the 
Spectator, 

' '  Now,  young  gentleman,  for  a  specimen  of  the  metaphorical 
tickle. 

"  'We  beg  this  poetical  aspirant  to  remember  the  fate  of  Pyre- 
nseus,  who,  attempting  to  pursue  the  Muses,  forgot  that  he  had 
not  the  wings  of  the  goddesses,  flung  himself  from  the  loftiest 
ascent  he  could  reach,  and  perished.' 

"This  you  see,  Paul,  is  a  loftier  and  more  erudite  sort  of 
tickle,  and  may  be  reserved  for  one  of  the  Quarterly  Reviews. 
Never  throw  away  a  simile  unnecessarily. 

"Now  for  a  sample  of  the  facetious  tickle. 

''Mr. has  obtained  a  considerable  reputation !     Some 

fine  ladies  think  him  a  great  philosopher,  and  he  has  been 
praised  in  our  hearing  by  some  Cambridge  Fellows,  for  his 
knowledge  of  fashionable  society.' 

"For  this  sort  of  tickle  we  generally  use  the  dullest  of  our 
tribe,  and  I  have  selected  the  foregoing  example  from  the  criti- 
cisms of  a  distinguished  writer  in  'The  Asinaeum,'  whom  we 
call,  par  excellence,  the  Ass. 

"There  is  a  variety  of  other  tickles;  the  familiar,  the  vulgar, 
the  polite,  the  good-natured,  the  bitter :  but  in  general  all  tickles 
may  be  supposed  to  signify,  however  disguised,  one  or  other 
of  these  meanings:  'This  book  would  be  exceedingly  good  if  it 
were  not  exceedingly  bad' ;  or,  'This  book  would  be  exceed- 
ingly bad  if  it  were  not  exceedingly  good.' 

"You  have  now,  Paul,  a  general  idea  of  the  superior  art 
required  by  the  tickle?" 

Our  hero  signified  his  assent  by  a  sort  of  hysterical  sound 
between  a  laugh  and  a  groan.  Mac  Grawler  continued: 

"There  is  another  grand  difficulty  attendant  on  this  class  of 
criticism, — it  is  generally  requisite  to  read  a  few  pages  of  the 
work ;  because  we  seldom  tickle  without  extracting,  and  it  re- 
quires some  judgment  to  make  the  context  agree  with  the  ex- 
tract ;  but  it  is  not  often  necessary  to  extract  when  you  slash  or 
when  you  plaster;  when  you  slash,  it  is  better  in  general  to 
conclude  with : 

'  'After  what  we  have  said,  it  is  unnecessary  to  add  that  we 
cannot  offend  the  taste  of  our  readers  by  any  quotation  from 
this  execrable  trash.'  And  when  you  plaster,  you  may  wind 
up  with,  'We  regret  that  our  limits  will  not  allow  us  to  give  any 


56  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

extracts  from  this  wonderful  and  unrivalled  work.  We  must 
refer  our  readers  to  the  book  itself.' 

"And  now,  sir,  I  think  I  have  given  you  a  sufficient  outline 
of  the  noble  science  of  Scaliger  and  Mac  Grawler.  Doubtless 
you  are  reconciled  to  the  task  I  have  allotted  you ;  and  while  I 
tickle  the  Romance,  you  will  slash  the  Inquiry  and  plaster  the 
Epic!" 

"I  will  do  my  best,  sir!"  said  Paul,  with  that  modest  yet 
noble  simplicity  which  becomes  the  virtuously  ambitious:  and 
Mac  Grawler  forthwith  gave  him  pen  and  paper,  and  set  him 
down  to  his  undertaking. 

He  had  the  good  fortune  to  please  Mac  Grawler,  who,  after 
having  made  a  few  corrections  in  style,  declared  he  evinced  a 
peculiar  genius  in  that  branch  of  composition.  And  then  it 
was  that  Paul,  made  conceited  by  praise,  said,  looking  con- 
temptuously in  the  face  of  his  preceptor,  and  swinging  his  legs 
to  and  fro;  "And  what,  sir,  shall  I  receive  for  the  plastered 
Epic  and  the  slashed  Inquiry?"  As  the  face  of  the  school-boy 
who,  when  guessing,  as  he  thinks  rightly,  at  the  meaning  of 
some  mysterious  word  in  Cornelius  Nepos,  receiveth  not  the 
sugared  epithet  of  praise,  but  a  sudden  stroke  across  the  03 
humerosve*  even  so,  blank,  puzzled,  and  thunder-stricken, 
waxed  the  face  of  Mr.  Mac  Grawler,  at  the  abrupt  and  as* 
tounding  audacity  of  Paul. 

"Receive!"  he  repeated,  "receive!  Why,  you  impudent, 
ungrateful  puppy,  would  you  steal  the  bread  from  your  old 
master?  If  I  can  obtain  for  your  crude  articles  an  admission 
into  the  illustrious  pages  of  'The  Asinseum,'  will  you  not  be 
sufficiently  paid,  sir,  by  the  honor?  Answer  me  that.  Anoth- 
er man,  young  gentleman,  would  have  charged  you  a  premium 
for  his  instructions;  and  here  have  I,  in  one  lesson,  imparted 
to  you  all  the  mysteries  of  the  science,  and  for  nothing!  And 
you  talk  to  me  of  'receive!' — 'receive!'  Young  gentleman,  in 
the  words  of  the  immortal  bard,  'I  would  as  lief  you  had  talked 
to  me  of  ratsbane' !" 

"In  fine,  then,  Mr.  Mac  Grawler,  I  shall  get  nothing  for  my 
trouble?"  said  Paul. 

"To  be  sure  not,  sir;  the  very  best  writer  in  'The  Asinasum' 
only  gets  three  shillings  an  article!"  Almost  more  than  he  de- 
serves, the  critic  might  have  added ;  for  he  who  writes  for 
nobody  should  receive  nothing! 

"Then,  sir,"  quoth  the  mercenary  Paul  profanely,  and  ris- 
ing, he  kicked  with  one  kick  the  cat,  the  Epic,  and  the  In- 

*  Face  or  shoulders. 


£AUL   CLIFFORD.  gt 

quirer  to  the  other  end  of  the  room;  "Then,  sir,  you  may  all 
go  to  the  devil!" 

We  do  not,  O  gentle  reader!  seek  to  excuse  this  hasty  anath- 
ema; the  habits  of  childhood  will  sometimes  break  forth  des- 
pite of  the  after  blessings  of  education.  And  we  set  not  up 
Paul  for  thine  imitation  as  that  model  of  virtue  and  wisdom 
which  we  design  thee  to  discover  in  Mac  Grawler. 

When  that  great  critic  perceived  Paul  had  risen  and  was  re- 
treating in  high  dudgeon  towards  the  door,  he  rose  also,  and 
repeating  Paul's  last  words,  said,  "  'Go  to  the  devil!'  Not  so 
quick,  young  gentleman, — -festina  lente, — all  in  good  time. 
What  though  I  did,  astonished  at  your  premature  request,  say 
that  you  should  receive  nothing;  yet  my  great  love  for  you 
may  induce  me  to  bestir  myself  on  your  behalf.  'The 
Asinaeum,'  it  is  true,  only  gives  three  shillings  an  article  in  gen- 
eral ;  but  I  am  its  editor,  and  will  intercede  with  the  proprie- 
tors on  your  behalf.  Yes,  yes.  I  will  see  what  is  to  be  done. 
Stop  a  bit,  my  boy." 

Paul,  though  very  irascible,  was  easily  pacified :  he  reseated 
himself,  and,  taking  Mac  Crawler's  hand,  said: 

"Forgive  me  for  my  petulance,  my  dear  sir;  but,  to  tell  you 
the  honest  truth,  I  am  very  low  in  the  world  just  at  present,  and 
must  get  money  in  some  way  or  another :  in  short,  I  must  either 
pick  pockets  or  write  (not  gratuitously)  for  the  'The  Asinaeum." 

And,  without  farther  preliminary,  Paul  related  his  present  cir- 
cumstances to  the  critic;  declared  his  determination  not  to 
return  to  the  Mug;  and  requested,  at  least,  from  the  friend- 
ship of  his  old  preceptor  the  accommodation  of  shelter  for  that 
night. 

Mac  Grawler  was  exceedingly  disconcerted  at  hearing  so  bad 
an  account  of  his  pupil's  finances  as  well  as  prospects;  for  he 
had  secretly  intended  to  regale  himself  that  evening  with  a  bowl 
of  punch,  for  which  he  purposed  that  Paul  should  pay;  but  as 
he  knew  the  quickness  of  parts  possessed  by  the  young  gentle- 
man, as  also  the  great  affection  entertained  for  him  by  Mrs. 
Lobkins,  who,  in  all  probability,  would  solicit  his  return  the 
next  day,  he  thought  it  not  unlikely  that  Paul  would  enjoy  the 
same  good  fortune  as  that  presiding  over  his  feline  companion, 
which,  though  it  had  just  been  kicked  to  the  other  end  of  the 
apartment,  was  now  resuming  its  former  occupation,  unhurt,  and 
no  less  merrily  than  before.  He,  therefore,  thought  it  would 
be  imprudent  to  discard  his  quondam  pupil,  despite  of  his  pres- 
ent poverty;  and,  moreover,  although  the  first  happy  project 
of  pocketing  all  the  profits  derivable  from  Paul's  industry  was 


CLiFFORQ. 

now  abandoned,  he  still  perceived  great  facility  in  pocketing  a 
part  of  the  same  receipts.  He  therefore  answered  Paul  very 
warmly,  that  he  fully  sympathized  with  him  in  his  present  mel- 
ancholy situation ;  that,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  he  would 
share  his  last  shilling  with  his  beloved  pupil,  but  that  he  re- 
gretted at  that  moment  he  had  only  eleven-pence  halfpenny  in 
his  pocket ;  that  he  would,  however,  exert  himself  to  the  utmost 
in  procuring  an  opening  for  Paul's  literary  genius;  and  that, 
if  Paul  liked  to  take  the  slashing  and  plastering  part  of  the  busi- 
ness on  himself,  he  would  willingly  surrender  it  to  him,  and 
give  him  all  the  profits,  whatever  they  might  be.  En  attendant, 
he  regretted  that  a  violent  rheumatism  prevented  his  giving  up 
his  own  bed  to  his  pupil,  but  that  he  might,  with  all  the  pleas- 
ure imaginable,  sleep  upon  the  rug  before  the  fire.  Paul  was 
so  affected  by  this  kindness  in  the  worthy  man,  that,  though 
not  much  addicted  to  the  melting  mood,  he  shed  tears  of  grati- 
tude; he  insisted,  however,  on  not  receiving  the  whole  reward 
of  his  labors ;  and  at  length  it  was  settled,  though  with  a  noble 
reluctance  on  the  part  of  Mac  Crawler,  that  it  should  be  equally 
shared  between  the  critic  and  the  critic's  protege" ;  the  half 
profits  being  reasonably  awarded  to  Mac  Grawler  for  his  in- 
structions and  his  recommendation. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  Bad  events  peep  out  o'  the  tail  of  good  purposes." 

Bartholomew  Fair. 

IT  was  not  long  before  there  was  a  visible  improvement  in 
the  pages  of  "The  Asinseum"  :  the  slashing  part  of  that  incom- 
parable journal  was  suddenly' conceived  and  carried  on  with  a 
vigor  and  spirit  which  astonished  the  hallowed  few  who  contrib- 
uted to  its  circulation.  It  was  not  difficult  to  see  that  a  new 
soldier  had  been  enlisted  in  the  service ;  there  was  something 
so  fresh  and  hearty  about  the  abuse,  that  it  could  n-ever  have 
proceeded  from  the  worn-out  acerbity  of  an  old  slasher.  To 
be  sure,  a  little  ignorance  of  ordinary  facts,  and  an  innovating 
method  of  applying  words  to  meanings  which  they  never  were 
meant  to  denote,  were  now  and  then  distinguishable  in  the  crit- 
icisms of  the  new  Achilles :  nevertheless  it  was  easy  to  attribute 
these  peculiarities  to  an  original  turn  of  thinking;  and  the  rise 
of  the  paper  upon  the  appearance  of  a  series  of  articles  upon 
contemporary  authors,  written  by  this  "eminent  hand,"  was  so 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  $$ 

remarkable,  that  fifty  copies — a  number  perfectly  unprece- 
dented in  the  annals  of  "The  Asinseum" — were  absolutely  sold 
in  one  week:  indeed,  remembering  the  principle  on  which  it 
was  founded,  one  sturdy  old  writer  declared  that  the  journal 
would  soon  do  for  itself  and  become  popular.  There  was  a 
remarkable  peculiarity  about  the  literary  debutant,  who  signed 
himself  "Nobilitas."  He  not  only  put  old  words  to  a  new 
sense,  but  he  used  words  which  had  never,  among  the  general 
run  of  writers,  been  used  before.  This  was  especially  remark- 
able in  the  application  of  hard  names  to  authors.  Once,  in 
censuring  a  popular  writer  for  pleasing  the  public,  and  thereby 
growing  rich,  the  "eminent  hand"  ended  with  "He  who  sur- 
reptitiously accumulates  bustle  *  is,  in  fact,  nothing  better  than 
a  buzz  gloak  !  "  f 

These  enigmatical  words  and  recondite  phrases  imparted  a 
great  air  of  learning  to  the  style  of  the  new  critic ;  and,  from 
the  unintelligible  sublimity  of  his  diction,  it  seemed  doubtful 
whether  he  was  a  poet  from  Highgate,  or  a  philosopher  from 
Koningsburg.  At  all  events,  the  reviewer  preserved  his  incog- 
nito, and,  while  his  praises  were  rung  at  no  less  than  three  tea- 
tables,  even  glory  appeared  to  him  less  delicious  than  disguise. 

In  this  incognito,  reader,  thou  hast  already  discovered  Paul; 
and  now,  we  have  to  delight  thee  with  a  piece  of  unexampled 
morality  in  the  excellent  Mac  Grawler.  That  worthy  Mentor, 
perceiving  that  there  was  an  inherent  turn  for  dissipation  and 
extravagance  in  our  hero,  resolved  magnanimously  rather  to 
bring  upon  himself  the  sins  of  treachery  andmal-appropriation, 
than  suffer  his  friend  and  former  pupil  to  incur  those  of  waste- 
fulness and  profusion.  Contrary,  therefore,  to  the  agreement 
made  with  Paul,  instead  of  giving  that  youth  the  half  of  those 
profits  consequent  on  his  brilliant  lucubrations,  he  imparted  to 
him  only  one  fourth,  and,  with  the  utmost  tenderness  for  Paul's 
salvation,  applied  the  other  three  portions  of  the  same  to  his 
own  necessities.  The  best  actions  are,  alas!  often  misconstrued 
in  this  world ;  and  we  are  now  about  to  record  a  remarkable  in- 
stance of  that  melancholy  truth. 

One  evening  Mac  Grawler,  having  "moistened  his  virtue"  in 
the  same  manner  that  the  great  Cato  is  said  to  have  done,  in 
the  confusion  which  such  a  process  sometimes  occasions  in  the 
best  regulated  heads,  gave  Paul  what  appeared  to  him  the  out- 
line of  a  certain  article,  which  he  wished  to  be  slashingly  filled 
up,  but  what  in  reality  was  the  following  note  from  the  editor 
of  a  monthly  periodical  •• 

*  Money.  t  Pickpocket. 


54  t>AUL    CLIFFORD. 

"SIR: 

"Understanding  that  my  friend,  Mr. ,  proprietor  of  'The 

Asinaeum,'  allows  the  very  distinguished  writer  whom  you  have 
introduced  to  the  literary  world,  and  who  signs  himself  'Nobil- 
itas,'  only  five  shillings  an  article,  I  beg,  through  you,  to  tender 
him  double  that  sum :  the  article  required  will  be  of  an  ordi- 
nary length.  "I  am,  sir,  etc. 


Now  that  very  morning  Mac  Crawler  had  informed  Paul  of 
this  offer,  altering  only,  from  the  amiable  motives  we  have  al- 
ready explained,  the  sum  of  ten  shillings  to  that  of  four ;  and 
no  sooner  did  Paul  read  the  communication  we  have  placed 
before  the  reader,  than,  instead  of  gratitude  to  Mac  Grawler  for 
his  consideration  of  Paul's  moral  infirmities,  he  conceived 
against  that  gentleman  the  most  bitter  resentment.  He  did 
not,  however,  vent  his  feelings  at  once  upon  the  Scotsman ;  in- 
deed, at  that  moment,  as  the  sage  was  in  a  deep  sleep  under  the 
table,  it  would  have  been  to  no  purpose  had  he  unbridled  his 
indignation.  But  he  resolved  without  loss  of  time  to  quit  the 
abode  of  the  critic.  "And,  indeed,"  said  he,  soliloquizing,  "I 
am  heartily  tired  of  this  life,  and  shall  be  very  glad  to  seek 
some  other  employment.  Fortunately,  I  have  hoarded  up  five 
guineas  and  four  shillings,  and  with  that  independence  in  my 
possession,  since  I  have  foresworn  gambling,  I  cannot  easily 
starve." 

To  this  soliloquy  succeeded  a  misanthropical  revery  upon  the 
faithlessness  of  friends;  and  the  meditation  ended  in  Paul's 
making  up  a  little  bundle  of  such  clothes,  etc.,  as  Dummie  had 
succeeded  in  removing  from  the  Mug,  and  which  Paul  had 
taken  from  the  rag-merchant's  abode  one  morning  when  Dum- 
mie was  abroad. 

When  this  easy  task  was  concluded,  Paul  wrote  a  short  and 
upbraiding  note  to  his  illustrious  preceptor,  and  left  it  unsealed 
on  the  table.  He  then,  upsetting  the  ink-bottle  on  Mac 
Crawler's  sleeping  countenance,  departed  from  the  house,  and 
strolled  away  he  cared  not  whither. 

The  evening  was  gradually  closing  as  Paul,  chewing  the  cud 
of  his  bitter  fancies,  found  himself  on  London  Bridge.  He 
paused  there,  and,  leaning  over  the  bridge,  gazed  wistfully  on 
the  gloomy  waters  that  rolled  onward,  caring  not  a  minnow  for 
the  numerous  charming  young  ladies  who  have  thought  proper 
to  drown  themselves  in  those  merciless  waves,  thereby  depriv- 
ing many  a  good  mistress  of  an  excellent  housemaid  or  an  in- 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  55 

valuable  cook,  and  many  a  treacherous  Phaon  of  letters  begin- 
ning with  "Parjured  Villen"  and  ending  with  "Your  affectionot 
but  molaacolly  Molly." 

While  thus  musing,  he  was  suddenly  accosted  by  a  gentle- 
man in  boots  and  spurs,  having  a  riding-whip  in  one  hand,  and 
the  other  hand  stuck  in  the  pocket  of  his  inexpressibles.  The 
hat  of  the  gallant  was  gracefully  and  carefully  put  on,  so  as  to 
derange  as  little  as  possible  a  profusion  of  dark  curls  which, 
streaming  with  unguents,  fell  low  not  only  on  either  side  of  the 
face,  but  on  the  neck  and  even  the  shoulders  of  the  owner. 
The  face  was  saturnine  and  strongly  marked,  but  handsome  and 
striking.  There  was  a  mixture  of  frippery  and  sternness  in  its 
expression, — something  between  Madame  Vestris  and  T.  P. 
Cooke,  or  between  "lovely  Sally"  and  a  "Captain  bold  of 
Halifax."  The  stature  of  this  personage  was  remarkably  tall, 
and  his  figure  was  stout,  muscular,  and  well  knit.  In  fine,  to 
complete  his  portrait,  and  give  our  readers  of  the  present  day 
an  exact  idea  of  this  hero  of  the  past,  we  shall  add  that  he 
was  altogether  that  sort  of  gentleman  one  sees  swaggering  in 
the  Burlington  Arcade,  with  his  hair  and  hat  on  one  side,  and 
a  military  cloak  thrown  over  his  shoulders;  or  prowling  in 
Regent  Street,  towards  the  evening,  ^vhiskered  and  cigarred. 

Laying  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  our  hero,  this  gentleman 
said,  with  an  affected  intonation  of  voice : 

"How  dost  my  fine  fellow ?  Long  since  I  saw  you !  Dammee, 
but  you  look  the  worse  for  wear.  What  hast  thou  been  doing 
with  thyself?" 

"Ha!"  cried  our  hero,  returning  the  salutation  of  the  stran- 
ger, "and  is  it  Long  Ned  whom  I  behold?  I  am  indeed  glad 
to  meet  you ;  and  I  say,  my  friend,  I  hope  what  I  heard  of  you 
is  not  true!" 

"Hist!"  said  Long  Ned,  looking  round  fearfully,  and  sinking 
his  voice,  "never  talk  of  what  you  hear  of  gentlemen,  except 
you  wish  to  bring  them  to  their  last  dying  speech  and  confes- 
sion. But  come  with  me,  my  lad ;  there  is  a  tavern  hard  by, 
and  we  may  as  well  discuss  matters  over  a  pint  of  wine.  You 
look  cursed  seedy,  to  be  sure,  but  I  can  tell  Bill  the  waiter — 
famous  fellow,  that  Bill! — that  you  are  one  of  my  tenants, 
come  to  complain  of  my  steward,  who  has  just  distrained  you 
for  rent,  you  dog!  No  wonder  you  look  so  worn  in  the 
rigging.  Come,  follow  me.  I  can't  walk  with  thee.  It  would 
look  too  like  Northumberland  House  and  the  butcher's  abode 
next  door  taking  a  stroll  together." 

"Really,   Mr.  Pepper,"  said  our  hero,  coloring,  and  by  no 


56  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

means  pleased  with  the  ingenious  comparison  of  his  friend,  "if 
you  are  ashamed  of  my  clothes,  which  I  own  might  be  newer, 
I  will  not  wound  you  with  my — " 

"Pooh!  my  lad— pooh!"  cried  Long  Ned,  interrupting  him; 
"never  take  offence.  I  never  do.  I  never  take  anything  but 
money, — except,  indeed,  watches.  I  don't  mean  to  hurt  your 
feelings;  all  of  us  have  been  poor  once.  'Gad,  I  remember 
when  I  had  not  a  dud  on  my  back,  and  now,  you  see  me — you 
see  me,  Paul!  But  come,  'tis  only  through  the  streets  you 
need  separate  from  me.  Keep  a  little  behind — very  little — that 
will  do.  Ay,  that  will  do,"  repeated  Long  Ned  mutteringly 
to  himself,  "they'll  take  him  for  a  bailiff.  It  looks  handsome 
nowadays  to  be  so  attended.  It  shows  one  had  credit 
once  !  ' ' 

Meanwhile  Paul,  though  by  no  means  pleased  with  the  con- 
tempt expressed  for  his  personal  appearance  by  his  lengthy  as- 
sociate, and  impressed  with  a  keener  sense  than  ever  of  the 
crimes  of  his  coat  and  the  vices  of  his  other  garment — "O 
breathe  not  its  name!" — followed  doggedly  and  sullenly  the 
strutting  steps  of  the  coxcombical  Mr.  Pepper.  That  person- 
age arrived  at  last  at  a  small  tavern,  and  arresting  a  waiter  who  was 
running  across  the  passage  into  the  coffee-room  with  a  dish  of 
hung-beef,  demanded  (no  doubt  from  a  pleasing  anticipation  of 
a  similar  pendulous  catastrophe)  a  plate  of  the  same  excellent 
cheer,  to  be  carried,  in  company  with  a  bottle  of  port,  into  a 
private  apartment.  No  sooner  did  he  find  himself  alone  with 
Paul,  than,  bursting  into  a  loud  laugh,  Mr.  Ned  surveyed  his 
comrade  from  head  to  foot  through  an  eyeglass  which  he  wore 
fastened  to  his  button-hole  by  a  piece  of  blue  riband. 

"Well,  'gad  now,"  said  he,  stopping  ever  and  anon,  as  if  to 
laugh  the  more  heartily,  "stab  my  vitals,  but  you  are  a  comical 
quiz ;  I  wonder  what  the  women  would  say,  if  they  saw  the 
dashing  Edward  Pepper,  Esquire,  walking  arm  in  arm  with 
thee  at  Ranelagh  or  Vauxhall?  Nay,  man,  never  be  down- 
cast; if  I  laugh  at  thee,  it  is  only  to  make  thee  look  a  little  mer- 
rier thyself.  Why,  thou  lookest  like  a  book  of  my  grandfather's 
called  Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy  j  and  faith,  a  shabbier 
bound  copy  of  it  I  never  saw." 

"These  jests  are  a  little  hard,"  said  Paul,  struggling  between 
anger  and  an  attempt  to  smile ;  and  then  recollecting  his  late 
literary  occupations,  and  the  many  extracts  he  had  taken  from 
Gleanings  of  the  Belles  Lettres,  in  order  to  impart  elegance  to 
his  criticisms,  he  threw  out  his  hand  theatrically,  and  spouted 
with  a  solemn  face : 


PAUL     CLIFFORD.  57 

"  Of  all  the  griefs  that  harass  the  distrest, 
Sure  the  most  bitter  is  a  scornful  jest  !  " 

"Well  now,  prithee  forgive  me,"  said  Long  Ned",  composing 
his  features;  "and  just  tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing  the 
last  two  months." 

"Slashing  and  plastering!"  said  Paul,  with  conscious  pride. 

"Slashing  and  what!  The  boy's  mad!  What  do  you  mean, 
Paul?" 

"In  other  words,"  said  our  hero,  speaking  very  slowly, 
"know,  O  very  Long  Ned!  that  I  have  been  critic  to  'The 
Asinaeum.'  ' 

If  Paul's  comrade  laughed  at  first,  he  now  laughed  ten 
times  more  merrily  than  ever.  He  threw  his  length  of  limb 
upon  a  neighboring  sofa,  and  literally  rolled  with  cachinnatory 
convulsions ;  nor  did  his  risible  emotions  subside  until  the  en- 
trance of  the  hung-beef  restored  him  to  recollection.  Seeing, 
then,  that  a  cloud  lowered  over  Paul's  countenance,  he  went  up 
to  him,  with  something  like  gravity ;  begged  his  pardon  for  his 
want  of  politeness ;  and  desired  him  to  wash  away  all  unkind- 
ness  in  a  bumper  of  port.  Paul,  whose  excellent  disposition 
we  have  before  had  occasion  to  remark,  was  not  impervious  to 
his  friend's  apologies.  He  assured  Long  Ned  that  he  quite 
forgave  him  for  his  ridicule  of  the  high  situation  he  (Paul)  had 
enjoyed  in  the  literary  world :  that  it  was  the  duty  of  a  public 
censor  to  bear  no  malice ;  and  that  he  should  be  very  glad  to 
take  his  share  in  the  interment  of  the  hung-beef. 

The  pair  now  sat  down  to  their  repast,  and  Paul,  who  had 
fared  but  meagerly  in  that  Temple  of  Athena  over  which  Mac 
Crawler  presided,  did  ample  justice  to  the  viands  before  him. 
By  degrees,  as  he  ate  and  drank,  his  heart  opened  to  his  com- 
panion ;  and,  laying  aside  that  Asinseum  dignity  which  he  had 
at  first  thought  it  incumbent  on  him  to  assume,  he  entertained 
Pepper  with  all  the  particulars  of  the  life  he  had  lately  passed. 
He  narrated  to  him  his  breach  with  Dame  Lobkins;  his 
agreement  with  Mac  Crawler;  the  glory  he  had  acquired,  and 
the  wrongs  he  had  sustained ;  and  he  concluded,  as  now  the 
second  bottle  made  its  appearance,  by  stating  his  desire  of  ex- 
changing, for  some  more  active  profession,  that  sedentary 
career  which  he  had  so  promisingly  begun. 

This  last  part  of  Paul's  confessions  secretly  delighted  the 
soul  of  Long  Ned;  for  that  experienced  collector  of  the  high- 
ways— (Ned,  was,  indeed,  of  no  less  noble  a  profession) — had 
long  fixed  an  eye  upon  our  hero,  as  one  whom  he  thought  likely 
to  be  an  honor  to  that  enterprising  calling  which  he  espoused, 


58  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

and  a  useful  assistant  to  himself.  He  had  not,  in  his  earlier 
acquaintance  with  Paul,  when  the  youth  was  under  the  roof 
and  the  surveillance  of  the  practised  and  wary  Mrs.  Lobkins, 
deemed  it  prudent  to  expose  the  exact  nature  of  his  own 
pursuits,  and  had  contented  himself  by  gradually  ripening  the 
mind  and  the  finances  of  Paul  into  that  state  when  the  proposi- 
tion of  a  leap  from  a  hedge  would  not  be  likely  greatly  to  revolt 
the  person  to  whom  it  was  made.  He  now  thought  that  time 
nea'r  at  hand;  and,  filling  our  hero's  glass  up  to  the  brim,  thus 
artfully  addressed  him : 

"Courage,  my  friend!  Your  narration  has  given  me  a  sensi- 
ble pleasure ;  for,  curse  me,  if  it  has  not  strengthened  my  fav- 
orite opinion — that  everything  is  for  the  best.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  the  meanness  of  that  pitiful  fellow,  Mac  Crawler,  you 
might  still  be  inspired  with  the  paltry  ambition  of  earning  a 
few  shillings  a  week,  and  vilifying  a  parcel  of  poor  devils  in  the 
what-d'ye-call-it,  with  a  hard  name ;  whereas,  now,  my  good 
Paul,  I  trust  I  shall  be  able  to  open  to  your  genius  a  new 
career,  in  which  guineas  are  had  for  the  asking;  in  which  you 
may  wear  fine  clothes,  and  ogle  the  ladies  at  Ranelagh ;  and 
when  you  are  tired  of  glory  and  liberty.  Paul,  why  you  have 
only  to  make  your  bow  to  an  heiress,  or  a  widow  with  a 
spanking  jointure,  and  quit  the  hum  of  men  like  a  Cin- 
natus!" 

Though  Paul's  perception  into  the  abstruser  branches  of 
morals  was  not  very  acute, — and  at  that  time  the  port  wine  had 
considerably  confused  the  few  notions  he  possessed  upon  "the 
beauty  of  virtue,"  — yet  he  could  not  but  perceive  that  Mr. 
Pepper's  insinuated  proposition  was  far  from  being  one  which 
the  bench  of  bishops,  or  a  synod  of  moralists,  would  conscien- 
tiously have  approved :  he  consequently  remained  silent ;  and 
Long  Ned,  after  a  pause,  continued : 

"You  know  my  genealogy,  my  good  fellow?  I  was  the  son 
of  Laywer  Pepper,  a  shrewd  old  dog,  but  as  hot  as  Calcutta; 
and  the  grandson  of  Sexton  Pepper, — a  great  author,  who 
wrote  verses  on  tombstones,  and  kept  a  stall  of  religious  tracts 
in  Carlisle.  My  grandfather,  the  sexton,  was  the  best  temper 
of  the  family ;  for  all  of  us  are  a  little  inclined  to  be  hot  in  the 
mouth.  Well,  my  fine  fellow,  my  father  left  me  his  blessing, 
and  this  devilish  good  head  of  hair.  I  lived  for  some  years  on 
my  own  resources.  I  found  it  a  particularly  inconvenient  mode 
life,  and  of  late  I  have  taken  to  live  on  the  public.  My  father 
and  grandfather  did  it  before  me,  though  in  a  different  line. 
"Pis  the  pleasantest  plan  in  the  world.  Follow  my  example, 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  59 

and  your  coat  shall  be  as  spruce  as  my  own.  Master  Paul, 
your  health!" 

"But,  O  longest  of  mortals!"  said  Paul,  refilling  his  glass, 
"though  the  public  may  allow  you  to  eat  your  mutton  off  their 
backs  for  a  short  time,  they  will  kick  up  at  last,  and  upset  you 
and  your  banquet:  in  other  words — (pardon  my  metaphor, 
dear  Ned,  in  remembrance  of  the  part  I  have  lately  maintained 
in  'The  Asinseum,'  that  most  magnificent  and  metaphorical  of 
journals ! ), — in  other  words,  the  police  will  nab  thee  at  last ;  and 
thou  wilt  have  the  distinguished  fate,  as  thou  already  hast  the 
distinguished  characteristic,  of  Absalom!" 

"You  mean  that  I  shall  be  hanged,"  said  Long  Ned.  "That 
may  or  may  not  be ;  but  he  who  fears  death  never  enjoys  life. 
Consider,  Paul,  that  though  hanging  is  a  bad  fate,  starving  is  a 
worse ;  wherefore  fill  your  glass,  and  let  us  drink  to  the  health 
of  that  great  donkey,  the  people,  and  may  we  never  want  sad- 
dles to  ride  it!" 

"To  the  great  donkey,"  cried  Paul,  tossing  off  his  bumper 
"may  your  (y]ears  be  as  long!  But  I  own  to  you,  my  friend, 
that  I  cannot  enter  into  your  plans.  And,  as  a  token  of  my 
resolution,  I  shall  drink  no  more,  for  my  eyes  already  begin  to 
dance  in  the  air :  and  if  I  listen  longer  to  your  resistless  elo- 
quence, my  feet  may  share  the  same  fate!" 

So  saying,  Paul  rose ;  nor  could  any  entreaty,  on  the  part  of 
his  entertainer,  persuade  him  to  resume  his  seat. 

"Nay,  as  you  will,"  said  Pepper,  affecting  a  nonchalant  tone, 
and  arranging  his  cravat  before  the  glass.  "Nay,  as  you  will. 
Ned  Pepper  requires  no  man's  companionship  against  his  lik- 
ing :  and  if  the  noble  spark  of  ambition  be  not  in  your  bosom, 
'tis  no  use  spending  my  breath  in  blowing  at  what  only  existed 
in  my  too  flattering  opinion  of  your  qualities.  So,  then,  you 
propose  to  return  to  Mac  Grawler  (the  scurvy  old  cheat!)  and 
pass  the  inglorious  remainder  of  your  life  in  the  mangling  of 
authors  and  the  murder  of  grammar?  Go,  my  good  fellow, 
go!  scribble  again  and  forever  for  Mac  Grawler,  and  let  him 
live  upon  thy  brains,  instead  of  suffering  thy  brains  to — 

"Hold!"  cried  Paul.  "Although  I  may  have  some  scruples 
which  prevent  my  adoption  of  that  rising  line  of  life  you  have 
proposed  to  me,  yet  you  are  very  much  mistaken  if  you  imagine 
me  so  spiritless  as  any  longer  to  subject  myself  to  the  frauds  of 
that  rascal  Mac  Grawler.  No!  My  present  intention  is  to  pay 
my  old  nurse  a  visit.  It  appears  to  me  passing  strange,  that 
though  I  have  left  her  so  many  weeks,  she  has  never  relented 
enough  to  track  me  out,  which  one  would  think  would  have 


60  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

•been  no  difficult  matter :  and  now  you  see  that  I  am  pretty  well 
off,  having  five  guineas  and  four  shillings,  all  my  own,  and  she 
can  scarcely  think  I  want  her  money,  my  heart  melts  to  her, 
and  I  shall  go  and  ask  pardon  for  my  haste." 

"Pshaw!  sentimental,"  cried  Long  Ned,  a  little  alarmed  at 
the  thought  of  Paul's  gliding  from  those  clutches  which  he 
thought  had  now  so  firmly  closed  upon  him.  "Why,  you 
surely  don't  mean,  after  having  once  tasted  the  joys  of  indepen- 
dence, to  go  back  to  the  boozing  ken,  and  bear  all  Mother 
Lobkins'  drunken  tantarums !  Better  have  stayed  with  Mac 
Grawler  of  the  two ! " 

"You  mistake  me,"  answered  Paul;  "I  mean  solely  to  make 
it  up  with  her,  and  get  her  permission  to  see  the  world.  My 
ultimate  intention  is — to  travel." 

"Right";  cried  Ned,  "on  the  high-road — and  on  horse- 
back, I  hope!" 

"No,  my  Colossus  of  Roads!  No!  I  am  in  doubt  whether 
or  not  I  shall  enlist  in  a  marching  regiment,  or  (give  me  your 
advice  on  it)  I  fancy  I  have  a  great  turn  for  the  stage,  ever 
sinct  I  saw  Garrick  in  Richard.  Shall  I  turn  stroller?  It 
must  be  a  merry  life." 

"Oh,  the  devil!"  cried  Ned.  "Imyself  once  did  Cassioin  a 
barn,  and  every  one  swore  I  enacted  the  drunken  scene  to  per- 
fection ;  but  you  have  no  notion  what  a  lamentable  life  it  is  to 
a  man  of  any  susceptibility.  No,  my  friend.  No !  There  is 
only  one  line  in  all  the  old  plays  worthy  thy  attention : 

'  Toby  or  not  toby*  that  is  the  question.' 

I  forget  the  rest!" 

"Well!','  said  our  hero,  answering  in  the  same  jocular  vein, 
"I  confess,' I  have  '  the  actor's  high  ambition.'  It  is  astonishing 
how  my  heart  beat,  when  Richard  cried  out,  'Come  bustle  ,\ 
bustle  !  '  Yes,  Pepper  avaunt !  : 

'  A  thousand  hearts  are  great  within  my  bosom.' " 

"Well,  well,"  said  Long  Ned,  stretching  himself,  "since  you 
are  so  fond  of  the  play,  what  say  you  to  an  excursion  thither 
to-night?  Garrick  acts!" 

"Done!"  cried  Paul. 

"Done!"  echoed  Long  Ned,  rising  with  that  bias/  air  which 
distinguishes  the  matured  man  of  the  world  from  the  enthusi- 
astic tyro.  "Done!  and  we  will  adjourn  afterwards  to  the 
White  Horse." 

*  The  highway.  t  Money. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD 

"But  stay  a  moment,"  said  Paul;  "if  you  remember,  I  owed 
you  a  guinea  when  I  last  saw  you :  here  it  is ! " 

"Nonsense,"  exclaimed  Long  Ned,  refusing  the  money, 
"nonsense!  you  want  the  money  at  present;  pay  me  when  you 
are  richer.  Nay,  never  be  coy  about  it :  debts  of  honor  are 
not  paid  now  as  they  used  to  be,  We  lads  of  the  Fish  Lane 
Club  have  changed  all  that.  Well,  well,  if  I  must." 

And  Long  Ned,  seeing  that  Paul  insisted,  pocketed  the 
guinea.  When  this  delicate  matter  had  been  arranged : 

"Come,"  said  Pepper,  "come  get  your  hat;  but  bless  me!  I 
have  forgotten  one  thing." 

"What?" 

"Why,  my  fine  Paul,  consider,  the  play  is  a  bang-up  sort  of 
place;  look  at  your  coat  and  your  waistcoat,  that's  all!" 

Our  hero  was  struck  dumb  with  this  argumentum  ad  hominem. 
But  Long  Ned,  after  enjoying  his  perplexity,  relieved  him 
of  it,  by  telling  him  that  he  knew  of  an  honest  tradesman  who 
kept  a  ready-made  shop,  just  by  the  theatre,  and  who  would  fk 
him  out  in  a  moment.  In  fact  Long  Ned  was  as  good  as  his 
word ;  he  carried  Paul  to  a  tailor,  who  gave  him  for  the  sum  of 
thirty  shillings,  half  ready  money,  half  on  credit,  a  green  coat 
with  a  tarnished  gold  lace,  a  pair  of  red  inexpressibles,  and  a 
pepper-and-salt-waistcoat ;  it  is  true,  they  were  somewhat  of  the 
largest,  for  they  had  once  belonged  no  less  a  person  than  Long 
Ned  himself:  but  Paul  did  not  then  regard  those  niceties  of 
apparel,  as  he  was  subsequently  taught  to  do  by  Gentleman 
George  (a  personage  hereafter  to  be  introduced  to  our  reader), 
and  he  went  to  the  theatre  as  well  satisfied  with  himself  as  if 
he  had  been  Mr.  T ,  or  the  Count  de  M . 

Our  adventurers  are  now  quietly  seated  in  the  theatre,  and 
we  shall  not  think  it  necessary  to  detail  the  performance  they 
saw,  or  the  observations  they  made.  Long  Ned  was  one  of 
those  superior  beings  of  the  road  who  would  not  for  the  world 
have  condescended  to  appear  anywhere  but  in  the  boxes,  and, 
accordingly,  the  friends  procured  a  couple  of  places  in  the 
dress-tier.  In  the  next  box  to  the  one  our  adventurers  adorneci 
they  remarked,  more  especially  than  the  rest  of  the  audience,  a 
gentleman  and  a  young  lady  seated  next  each  other:  the  latter, 
who  was  about  thirteen  years  old,  was  so  uncommonly  beauti- 
ful, that  Paul,  despite  his  dramatic  enthusiasm,  could  scarcely 
divert  his  eyes  from  her  countenance  to  the  stage.  Her  hair, 
of  a  bright  and  fair  auburn,  hung  in  profuse  ringlets  about  her 
neck,  shedding  a  softer  shade  upon  a  complexion  in  which  the 
roses  seemed  just  budding,  as  it  were,  into  blush.  Her  eyes, 


62  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

large,  blue,  and  rather  languishing  than  brilliant,  were  cur- 
tained by  the  darkest  lashes;  her  mouth  seemed  literally  girt 
with  smiles;  so  numberless  were  the  dimples,  that,  every  time 
the  full,  ripe,  dewy  lips  were  parted,  rose  into  sight ;  and  the  en- 
chantment of  the  dimples  was  aided  by  two  rows  of  teeth  more 
dazzling  than  the  richest  pearls  that  ever  glittered  on  a  bride. 
But  the  chief  charm  of  the  face  was  its  exceeding  and  touching 
air  of  innocence  and  girlish  softness ;  you  might  have  gazed  for 
ever  upon  that  first  unspeakable  bloom,  that  all  untouched  and 
stainless  down,  which  seemed  as  if  a  very  breath  could  mar  it. 
Perhaps  the  face  might  have  wanted  animation ;  but,  per- 
haps, also,  it  borrowed  from  that  want  an  attraction ;  the  re- 
pose of  the  features  was  so  soft  and  gentle,  that  the  eye  wan- 
dered there  with  the  same  delight,  and  left  it  with  the  same  re- 
luctance, which  it  experiences  in  dwelling  on  or  in  quitting  those 
hues  which  are  found  to  harmonize  the  most  with  its  vision. 
But  while  Paul  was  feeding  his  gaze  on  this  young  beauty,  the 
keen  glances  of  Long  Ned  had  found  an  object  no  less  fasci- 
nating in  a  large  gold  watch  which  the  gentleman  who  accompa- 
nied the  damsel  ever  and  anon  brought  to  his  eye,  as  if  he  were 
waxing  a  little  weary  of  the  length  of  the  pieces  or  the  lingering 
progression  of  time. 

"What  a  beautiful  face!"  whispered  Paul. 

"Is  the  face  gold,  then,  as  well  as  the  back?"  whispered 
Long  Ned  in  return. 

Our  hero  started,  frowned,  and  despite  the  gigantic  stature 
of  his  comrade,  told  him,  very  angrily,  to  find  some  other  sub- 
ject for  jesting.  Ned  in  his  turn  stared,  but  made  no  reply. 

Meanwhile  Paul,  though  the  lady  was  rather  too  young  to 
fall  in  love  with,  began  wondering  what  relationship  her  com- 
panion bore  to  her.  Though  the  gentleman  altogether  was 
handsome,  yet  his  features,  and  the  whole  character  of  his  face, 
were  widely  different  from  those  on  which  Paul  gazed  with  such 
delight.  He  was  not,  seemingly,  above  five-and-forty,  but  his 
forehead  was  knit  into  many  a  line  and  furrow ;  and  in  his  eyes 
the  light,  though  searching,  was  more  sober  and  staid  than  be- 
came his  years.  A  disagreeable  expression  played  about  the 
mouth,  and  the  shape  of  the  face,  which  was  long  and  thin, 
considerably  detracted  from  the  prepossessing  effect  of  a  hand- 
some aquiline  nose,  fine  teeth,  and  a  dark,  manly,  though  sal- 
low complexion.  There  was  a  mingled  air  of  shrewdness  and 
distraction  in  the  expression  of  his  face.  He  seemed  to  pay 
very  little  attention  to  the  play,  or  to  anything  about  him ;  but 
he  testified  very  considerable  alacrity  when  the  play  was  over 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  63 

in  putting  her  cloak  around  his  young  companion,  and  in 
threading  their  way  through  the  thick  crowd  that  the  boxes 
were  now  pouring  forth. 

Paul  and  his  companion  silently,  and  each  with  very  differ- 
ent motives  from  the  other,  followed  them.  They  were  now  at 
the  door  of  the  theatre. 

A  servant  stepped  forward  and  informed  the  gentleman  that 
his  carriage  was  a  few  paces  distant,  but  that  it  might  be  some 
time  before  it  could  drive  up  to  the  theatre. 

"Can  you  walk  to  the  carriage,  my  dear?"  said  the  gentle- 
man to  his  young  charge ;  and  she  answering  in  the  affirmative, 
they  both  left  the  house,  preceded  by  the  servant. 

"Come  on!  "  said  Long  Ned  hastily,  and  walking  in  the 
same  direction  which  the  strangers  had  taken.  Paul  readily 
agreed ;  they  soon  overtook  the  strangers.  Long  Ned  walked 
the  nearest  to  the  gentleman,  and  brushed  by  him  in  passing. 
Presently  a  voice  cried,  "  Stop  thief!"  and  Long  Ned  saying 
to  Paul,  "Shift  for  yourself — run!"  darted  from  our  hero's 
side  into  the  crowd,  and  vanished  in  a  twinkling.  Before 
Paul  could  recover  his  amaze,  he  found  himself  suddenly 
seized  by  the  collar;  he  turned  abruptly,  and  saw  the  dark 
face  of  the  young  lady's  companion. 

"Rascal!"  cried  the  gentleman,  "my  watch!" 

'  'Watch ! ' '  repeated  Paul,  bewildered ;  and  only  for  the  sake 
of  the  young  lady  refraining  from  knocking  down  his  arrester. 
"Watch!" 

"Ay,  young  man!"  cried  a  fellow  in  a  great-coat,  who  now 
suddenly  appeared  on  the  other  side  of  Paul ;  "this  gentleman's 
watch;  please  your  honor  (addressing  the  complainant),  /be  a 
watch  too, — shall  I  take  up  this  chap?" 

"By  all  means,"  cried  the  gentleman;  "I  would  not  have 
lost  my  watch  for  twice  its  value.  I  can  swear  I  saw  this  fel- 
low's companion  snatch  it  from  my  fob.  The  thief's  gone ;  but 
we  have  at  least  the  accomplice.  I  give  him  in  strict  charge  to 
you,  watchman;  take  the  consequences  if  you  let  him  escape." 

The  watchman  answered,  sullenly,  that  he  did  not  want  to  be 
threatened,  and  he  knew  how  to  discharge  his  duty. 

"Don't  answer  me,  fellow!  said  the  gentleman  haughtily; 
"do  as  I  tell  you!"  And,  after  a  little  colloquy,  Paul  found 
himself  suddenly  marched  off  between  two  tall  fellows,  who 
looked  prodigiously  inclined  to  eat  him.  By  this  time  he  had 
recovered  his  surprise  and  dismay :  he  did  not  want  the  pene- 
tration to  see  that  his  companion  had  really  committed  the 
offence  for  which  hf  was  charged ;  and  he  also  foresaw  that 


64  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

the  circumstance  might  be  attended  with  disagreeable  conse- 
quences to  himself.  Under  all  the  features  of  the  case,  he 
thought  that  an  attempt  to  escape  would  not  be  an  imprudent 
proceeding  on  his  part ;  accordingly,  after  moving  a  few  paces 
very  quietly  and  very  passively,  he  watched  his  opportunity, 
wrenched  himself  from  the  gripe  of  the  gentleman  on  his  left, 
and  brought  the  hand  thus  released  against  the  cheek  of  the 
gentleman  on  his  right  with  so  hearty  a  good  will  as  to  cause 
him  to  relinquish  his  hold,  and  retreat  several  paces  towards 
the  areas  in  a  slanting  position.  But  that  roundabout  sort  of 
blow  with  the  left  fist  is  very  unfavorable  towards  the  preserva- 
tion of  a  firm  balance ;  and  before  Paul  had  recovered  suffi- 
ciently to  make  an  effectual  "bolt,"  he  was  prostrated  to  the 
earth  by  a  blow  from  the  other  and  undamaged  watchman, 
which  utterly  deprived  him  of  his  senses ;  and  when  he  recov- 
ered those  useful  possessions  (which  a  man  may  reasonably 
boast  of  losing,  since  it  is  only  the  minority  who  have  them  to 
lose),  he  found  himself  stretched  on  a  bench  in  the  watchhouse. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  Begirt  with  many  a  gallant  slave, 
Apparell'd  as  becomes  the  brave, 
Old  Giaffir  sat  in  his  divan  : 
***** 
Much  I  misdoubt  this  wayward  boy 
Will  one  day  work  me  more  annoy." 

— Bride  of A  by  do  s. 

'THE  learned  and  ingenious  John  Schweighaeuser,  a  name 
facile  to  spell  and  mellifluous  to  pronounce)  hath  been  pleased, 
in  that  Appendix  continens  partiatlam  doctrince  de  mente  hu- 
mand,  which  clpseth  the  volume  of  his  Opuscula  Academica,  to 
observe  (we  translate  from  memory)  that,  "in  the  infinite  vari- 
ety of  things  which  in  the  theatre  of  the  world  occur  to  a  man's 
survey,  or  in  some  manner  or  another  affect  his  body  or  his 
mind,  by  far  the  greater  part  are  so  contrived  as  to  bring  to 
him  rather  some  sense  of  pleasure  than  of  pain  or  discomfort." 
Assuming  that  this  holds  generally  good  in  well-constituted 
frames,  we  point  out  a  notable  example  in  the  case  of  the  in- 
carcerated Paul,  for,  although  that  youth  was  in  no  agreeable 
situation  at  the  time  present,  and  although  nothing  very  encour- 
aging smiled  upon  him  from  the  prospects  of  the  future,  yet, 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  65 

as  soon  as  he  had  recovered  his  consciousness,  and  given  him- 
self a  rousing  shake,  he  found  an  immediate  source  of  pleasure 
in  discovering,  first,  that  seveial  ladies  and  gentlemen  bore  him 
company  in  his  imprisonment ;  and,  secondly,  in  perceiving  a 
huge  jug  of  water  within  his  reach,  which,  as  his  awaking 
sensation  was  that  of  burning  thirst,  he  delightedly  emptied  at 
a  draught.  He  then,  stretching  himself,  looked  around  with 
a  wistful  earnestness,  and  discovered  a  back  turned  towards 
him,  and  recumbent  on  the  floor,  which,  at  the  very  first 
glance,  appeared  to  him  familiar.  "Surely,"  thought  he,  "I 
know  that  frieze  coat,  and  the  peculiar  turn  of  those  narrow 
shoulders."  Thus  soliloquizing,  he  raised  himself,  and  putting 
out  his  leg,  he  gently  kicked  the  reclining  form.  "Muttering 
strange  oaths,"  the  form  turned  round,  and,  raising  itself  upon 
that  inhospitable  part  of  the  body  in  which  the  introduction  of 
foreign  feet  is  considered  anything  but  an  honor,  it  fixed  its 
dull  blue  eyes  upon  the  face  of  the  disturber  of  its  slumbers, 
gradually  opening  them  wider  and  wider,  until  they  seemed  to 
have  enlarged  themselves  into  proportions  fit  for  the  swallow- 
ing of  the  important  truth  that  burst  upon  them,  and  then  from 
the  mouth  of  the  creature  issued: 

"Queer  my  glims,  if  that  ben't  little  Paul!" 

"Ay,  Dummie,  here  I  am!  Not  been  long  without  being 
laid  by  the  heels,  you  see !  Life  is  short ;  we  must  make  the 
best  use  of  our  time!" 

Upon  this,  Mr.  Dunnaker  (it  was  no  less  respectable  a  per- 
son) scrambled  up  from  the  floor,  and  seating  himself  on  the 
bench  beside  Paul,  said,  in  a  pitying  tone: 

"Vy,  laus-a-me!  if  you  ben't  knocked  o'  the  head!  Your 
pole's  as  bloody  as  Murphy's  face*  ven  his  throat's  cut!" 

"Tis  only  the  fortune  of  war,  Dummie,  and  a  mere  trifle: 
the  heads  manufactured  at  Thames  Court  are  not  easily  put  out 
of  order.  But  tell  me,  how  came  you  here?" 

"Vy,  I  had  been  lushing  heavy  vet — " 

"Till  you  grew  light  in  the  head,  eh?  and  fell  into  the 
kennel." 

"Yes." 

"Mine  is  a  worse  business  than  that,  I  fear"  ;  and  therewith 
Paul,  in  a  lower  voice,  related  to  the  trusty  Dummie  the  train 
of  accidents  which  had  conducted  him  to  his  present  asylum. 
Dummie's  face  elongated  as  he  listened:  however,  when  the 
narrative  was  over,  he  endeavored  such  consolatory  palliatives 
as  occurred  to  him.  He  represented,  first,  the  possibility  that 

*  "  Murphy's  face,"  unlearned  reader,  appeareth,  in  Irish  phrase,  to  mean  "  pig's  head.* 


66  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

the  gentleman  might  not  take  the  trouble  to  appear;  secondly, 
the  certainty  that  no  watch  was  found  about  Paul's  per- 
son ;  thirdly,  the  fact  that,  even  by  the  gentleman's  confession, 
Paul  had  not  been  the  actual  offender ;  fourthly,  if  the  worst 
came  to  the  worst,  what  were  a  few  weeks',  or  even  months', 
imprisonment? 

"Blow  me  tight!"  said  Dummie,  "if  it  ben't  as  good  a  vay 
of  passing  the  time  as  a  cove  as  is  fond  of  snuggery  need 
desire!" 

This  observation  had  no  comfort  for  Paul,  who  recoiled,  with 
all  the  maiden  coyness  of  one  to  whom  such  unions  are  unfa- 
miliar, from  a  matrimonial  alliance  with  the  snuggery  of  the 
House  of  Correction.  He  rather  trusted  to  another  source  for 
consolation.  In  a  word,  he  encouraged  the  flattering  belief 
that  Long  Ned,  finding  that  Paul  had  been  caught  instead  of 
himself,  would  have  the  generosity  to  come  forward  and  excul- 
pate him  from  the  charge.  On  hinting  this  idea  to  Dummie, 
that  accomplished  "man  about  town"  could  not  for  some  time 
believe  that  any  simpleton  could  be  so  thoroughly  unac- 
quainted with  the  world  as  seriously  to  entertain  so  ridiculous 
a  notion ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  somewhat  remarkable  that  such  a 
hope  should  ever  have  told  its  flattering  tale  to  one  brought  up 
in  the  house  of  Mrs.  Margaret  Lobkins.  But  Paul,  we  have 
seen,  had  formed  many  of  his  notions  from  books ;  and  he  had 
the  same  fine  theories  of  your  "moral  rogue,"  that  possess  the 
minds  of  young  patriots  when  they  first  leave  college  for  the 
House  of  Commons,  and  think  integrity  a  prettier  thing  than 
office. 

Mr.  Dunnaker  urged  Paul,  seriously,  to  dismiss  so  vague  and 
childish  a  fancy  from  his  breast,  and  rather  to  think  of  what 
line  of  defence  it  would  be  best  for  him  to  pursue.  This  sub- 
ject being  at  length  exhausted,  Paul  recurred  to  Mrs.  Lobkins, 
and  inquired  whether  Dummie  had  lately  honored  that  lady 
with  a  visit. 

Mr.  Dunnaker  replied  that  he  had,  though  with  much  diffi- 
culty, appeased  her  anger  against  him  for  his  supposed  abet- 
ment of  Paul's  excesses,  and  that  of  late  she  had  held  sundry 
conversations  with  Dummie  respecting  our  hero  hmself.  Upon 
questioning  Dummie  further,  Paul  learned  the  good  matron's 
reasons  for  not  evincing  that  solicitude  for  his  return  which 
our  hero  had  reasonably  anticipated.  The  fact  was,  that  she, 
having  no  confidence  whatsoever  in  his  own  resources  indepen- 
dent of  her,  had  not  been  sorry  of  an  opportunity  effectually, 
as  she  hoped,  to  humble  that  pride  which  had  so  revolted  her ; 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  67 

and  she  pleased  her  vanity  by  anticipating  the  time  when  Paul, 
starved  into  submission,  would  gladly  and  penitently  re-seek 
the  shelter  of  her  roof,  and,  tamed  as  it  were  by  experience, 
would  never  again  kick  against  the  yoke  which  her  matronly 
prudence  thought  it  fitting  to  impose  upon  him.  She  contented 
herself,  then,  with  obtaining  from  Dummie  the  intelligence 
that  our  hero  was  under  Mac  Crawler's  roof,  and,  therefore, 
out  of  all  positive  danger  to  life  and  limb;  and,  as  she  could 
not  foresee  the  ingenious  exertions  of  intellect  by  which  Paul 
had  converted  himself  into  the  "Nobilitas"  of  "The  Asinseum," 
and  thereby  saved  himself  from  utter  penury,  she  was  perfectly 
convinced,  from  her  knowledge  of  character,  that  the  illus- 
trious Mac  Crawler  would  not  long  continue  that  protection  to 
the  rebellious  prote'gt,  which,  in  her  opinion,  was  his  only 
preservative  from  picking  pockets  or  famishing.  To  the  former 
decent  alternative  she  knew  Paul's  great  and  jejune  aversion, 
and  she  consequently  had  little  fear  for  his  morals  or  his  safety, 
in  thus  abandoning  him  for  a  while  to  chance.  Any  anxiety,  too, 
that  she  might  otherwise  have  keenly  experienced  was  deadened 
by  the  habitual  intoxication  now  increasing  upon  the  good  lady 
with  age,  and  which,  though  at  times  she  could  be  excited  to 
all  her  characteristic  vehemence,  kept  her  senses  for  the  most 
part  plunged  into  a  Lethaean  stupor;  or,  to  speak  more  cour- 
teously, into  a  poetical  abstraction  from  the  things  of  the 
external  world. 

"Rut,"  said  Dummie,  as  by  degrees  he  imparted  the  solution 
of  the  dame's  conduct  to  the  listening  ear  of  his  companion ; 
"But  I  hopes  as  how  ven  you  be  out  of  this  ere  scrape,  leetle 
Paul,  you  vill  take  varning,  and  drop  Meester  Pepper's  ac- 
quaintance (vich,  I  must  say,  I  vas  alvays  a  sorry  to  see  you 
hencourage),  and  go  home  to  the  Mug,  and  f am. grasp  the  old 
mort,  for  she  has  not  been  like  the  same  cretur  ever  since  you 
vent.  She's  a  delicate-arted  oman,  that  Piggy  Lob!" 

So  approving  a  panegyric  on  Mrs.  Margaret  Lobkins  might, 
at  another  time,  have  excited  Paul's  risible  muscles;  but  at  that 
moment  he  really  felt  compunction  for  the  unceremonious 
manner  in  which  he  had  left  her,  and  the  softness  of  regretful 
affection  imbued  in  its  hallowing  colors  even  the  image  of 
Piggy  Lob. 

In  conversation  of  this  intellectual  and  domestic  description 
the  night  and  ensuing  morning  passed  away,  till  Paul  found 
himself  in  the  awful  presence  of  Justice  Burnflat. 

Several  cases  were  disposed  of  before  his  own,  and  among 
others  Mr.  Dummie  Dunnaker  obtained  his  release,  though  not 


68  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

without  a  severe  reprimand  for  his  sin  of  inebriety,  which  no 
doubt  sensibly  affected  the  ingenuous  spirit  of  that  noble  char- 
acter. At  length  Paul's  turn  came.  He  heard,  as  he  took  his 
station,  a  general  buzz.  At  first  he  imagined  it  was  at  his 
own  interesting  appearance;  but,  raisirg  his  eyes,  he  perceived 
that  it  was  at  the  entrance  of  the  gentleman  who  was  to 
become  his  accuser. 

"Hush,"  said  some  one  near  him,  "'tis  Lawyer  Brandon. 
Ah.  he's  a  cute  fellow !  It  will  go  hard  with  the  person  he 
complains  of." 

There  was  a  happy  fund  of  elasticity  of  spirit  about  our  hero ; 
and  though  he  had  not  the  good  fortune  to  have  "a  blighted 
heart,"  a  circumstance  which,  by  the  poets  and  philosophers  of 
the  present  day,  is  supposed  to  inspire  a  man  with  wonderful 
courage,  and  make  him  impervious  to  all  misfortunes ;  yet  he 
bore  himself  up  with  wonderful  courage  under  his  present  trying 
situation,  and  was  far  from  overwhelmed,  though  he  was  cer- 
tainly a  little  damped,  by  the  observation  he  had  just  heard. 

Mr.  Brandon  was,  indeed,  a  barrister  of  considerable  repu- 
tation, and  in  high  esteem  in  the  world,  not  only  for  talent,  but 
also  for  a  great  austerity  of  manners,  which,  though  a  little 
mingled  with  sternness  and  acerbity  for  the  errors  of  other 
men,,  was  naturally  thought  the  more  praiseworthy  on  that  ac- 
count; there  being,  as  persons  of  experience  are  doubtless 
aware,  two  divisions  in  the  first  class  of  morality:  imprimis,  a 
great  hatred  for  the  vices  of  one's  neighbor;  secondly,  the 
possession  of  virtues  in  one's  self. 

Mr.  Brandon  was  received  with  great  courtesy  by  Justice 
Burnflat,  and  as  he  came,  watch  in  hand  (a  borrowed  watch), 
saying  that  his  time  was  worth  five  guineas  a  moment,  the  justice 
proceeded  immediately  to  business.  Nothing  could  be  clearer, 
shorter,  or  more  satisfactory,  than  the  evidence  of  Mr.  Brandon. 
The  corroborative  testimony  of  the  watchman  followed ;  and 
then  Paul  was  called  upon  for  his  defence.  This  was  equally 
urief  with  the  charge;  but,  alas!  it  was  not  equally  satisfactory. 
It  consisted  in  a  firm  declaration  of  his  innocence.  His  com- 
rade, he  confessed,  might  have  stolen  the  watch,  but  he  humbly 
suggested  that  that  was  exactly  the  very  reason  why  he  had  not 
stolen  it. 

"How  long,  fellow,"  asked  Justice  Burnflat,  "have  you  known 
your  companion?" 

"About  half  a  year!" 

"And  what  is  his  name  and  calling?" 

Paul  hesitated,  and  declined  to  answer, 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  69 

",\  sad  piece  of  business!"  said  the  justice,  in  a  melancholy 
cone,  and  shaking  his  head  portentously. 

The  lay  wer  acquiesced  in  the  aphorism ;  but  with  great  mag- 
nanimity observed,  that  he  did  not  wish  to  be  hard  upon  the 
young  man.  His  youth  was  in  his  favor,  and  his  offence  was 
probably  the  consequence  of  evil  company.  He  suggested, 
therefore,  that  as  he  must  be  perfectly  aware  of  the  address  of 
his  friend,  he  should  receive  a  full  pardon  if  he  would  immedi- 
ately favor  the  magistrate  with  that  information.  He  con- 
cluded by  remarking,  with  singular  philanthropy,  that  it  was 
not  the  punishment  of  the  youth,  but  the  recovery  of  his  watch, 
that  he  desired. 

Justice  Burnftat,  having  duly  impressed  upon  our  hero's  mind 
the  disinterested  and  Christian  mercy  of  the  complainant,  and 
the  everlasting  obligation  Paul  was  under  to  him  for  its  display, 
now  repeated,  with  double  solemnity,  those  queries  respecting 
the  habitation  and  name  of  Long  Ned,  which  our  hero  had  be- 
fore declined  to  answer. 

Grieved  are  we  to  confess  that  Paul,  ungrateful  for,  and 
wholly  untouched  by,  the  beautiful  benignity  of  Lawyer  Bran- 
don, continued  firm  in  his  stubborn  denial  to  betray  his  com- 
rade, and  with  equal  obduracy  he  continued  to  insist  upon  his 
own  innocence  and  unblemished  respectability  of  character. 

"Your  name,  young  man?"  quoth  the  justice.  "Yourname, 
you  say,  is  Paul — Paul  what?  you  have  many  an  alias,  I'll  be 
bound." 

Here  the  young  gentleman  again  hesitated :  at  length  he  re- 
plied : 

"Paul  Lobkins,  your  worship. " 

"Lobkins!"  repeated  the  judge;  "Lobkins!  Come  hither, 
Saunders:  have  not  we  that  name  down  in  our  black  books?" 

"So  please  your  worship,"  quoth  a  little  stout  man,  very  use- 
ful in  many  respects  to  the  Festus  of  the  police,  "there  is  one 
Peggy  Lobkins,  who  keeps  a  public-house,  a  sort  of  flash  ken, 
called  the  Mug,  in  Thames  Court,  not  exactly  in  our  beat, 
your  worship." 

"Ho,  ho!"  said  Justice  Burnflat,  winking  at  Mr.  Brandon, 
"we  must  sift  this  a  little.  Pray,  Mr.  Paul  Lobkins,  what  re- 
lation is  the  good  landlady  of  the  Mug,  in  Thames  Court,  to 
yourself?" 

"None  at  all,  sir,"  said  Paul  hastily ;   "she's  only  a  friend!" 

Upon  this  there  was  a  laugh  in  the  court. 

"Silence,"  cried  the  justice:  "and  I  dare  say,  Mr.  Paul 
Lobkins,  that  this  friend  of  yours  will  vouch  for  the  respecta- 


70  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

bility  of  your  character,  upon  which  you  are  pleased  to  value 
yourself!" 

"I  have  not  a  doubt  of  it,  sir,"  answered  Paul;  and  there 
was  another  laugh. 

"And  is  there  any  other  equally  weighty  and  praiseworthy 
friend  of  yours  who  will  do  you  the  like  kindness?" 

Paul  hesitated ;  and  at  that  moment,  to  the  surprise  of  the 
court,  but,  above  all,  to  the  utter  and  astounding  surprise  of 
himself,  two  gentlemen,  dressed  in  the  height  of  the  fashion, 
pushed  forward,  and,  bowing  to  the  justice,  declared  themselves 
ready  to  vouch  for  the  thorough  respectability  and  unimpeach- 
able character  of  Mr.  Paul  Lobkins,  whom  they  had  known, 
they  said,  for  many  years,  and  for  whom  they  had  the  greatest 
respect.  While  Paul  was  surveying  the  persons  of  these  kind 
friends,  whom  he  never  remembered  to  have  seen  before  in  the 
course  of  his  life,  the  lawyer,  who  was  a  very  sharp  fellow, 
whispered  to  the  magistrate ;  and  that  dignitary  nodding  as  in 
assent,  and  eyeing  the  new  comers,  inquired  the  names  of  Mr. 
Lobkins's  witnesses. 

"Mr.  Eustace  Fitzherbert,  and  Mr.  William  Howard  Russell," 
were  the  several  replies. 

Names  so  aristocratic  produced  a  general  sensation.  But  the 
impenetrable  justice,  calling  the  same  Mr.  Saunders  he  had  ad- 
dressed before,  asked  him  to  examine  well  the  countenances  of 
Mr.  Lobkins's  friends. 

As  the  alguazil  eyed  the  features  of  the  memorable  Don 
Raphael  and  the  illustrious  Manuel  Morales,  when  the  former  of 
those  accomplished  personages  thought  it  convenient  to  assume 
the  travelling  dignity  of  an  Italian  prince,  son  of  the  sovereign 
of  the  valleys  which  lie  between  Switzerland,  the  Milanese,  and 
Savoy,  while  the  latter  was  contented  with  being  servant  to 
Monscigneur  le  Prince ;  even  so,  with  far  more  earnest- 
ness than  respect,  did  Mr.  Saunders  eye  the  features  of  those 
high-born  gentlemen,  Messrs.  Eustace  Fitzherbert  and  William 
Howard  Russell;  but,  after  along  survey,  he  withdrew  his 
eyes,  made  an  unsatisfactory  and  unrecognizirig  gesture  to  the 
magistrate,  and  said :  ' '  Please  your  worship,  they  are  none  of  my 
flock ;  but  Bill  Troutling  knows  more  of  this  sort  of  gente  1 
chaps  than  I  does." 

"Bid  Bill  Troutling  appear!"  was  the  laconic  order. 

At  that  name  a  certain  modest  confusion  might  have  been 
visible  in  the  faces  of  Mr.  Eustace  Fitzherbert  and  Mr.  William 
Howard  Russell,  had  not  the  attention  of  the  court  been  imme- 
diately directed  to  another  case.  A  poor  woman  had  been 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  ?1 

commited  for  seven  days  to  the  house  of  correction  on  a  charge 
of  disrespectability.  Her  husband,  the  person  most  interested 
in  the  matter,  now  came  forward  to  disprove  the  charge ;  and 
by  help  of  his  neighbors  he  succeeded. 

"It  is  all  very  true,"  said  Justice  Burnflat;  "but  as  your 
wife,  my  good  fellow,  will  be  out  in  five  days,  it  will  be  scarce- 
ly worth  while  to  release  her  now."* 

So  judicious  a  decision  could  not  fail  of  satisfying  the  husband ; 
and  the  audience  became  from  that  moment  enlightened  as  to 
a  very  remarkable  truth,  viz.,  that  five  days  out  of  seven  bear 
a  peculiarly  small  proportion  to  the  remaining  two ;  and  that 
people  in  England  have  so  prodigious  a  love  for  punishment, 
that  though  it  is  not  worth  while  to  release  an  innocent  woman 
from  prison  five  days  sooner  than  one  would  otherwise  have 
done,  it  is  exceedingly  well  worth  while  to  commit  her  to  prison 
for  seven ! 

When  the  husband,  passing  his  rough  hand  across  his  eyes, 
and  muttering  some  vulgar  impertinence  or  another,  had  with- 
drawn, Mr.  Saunders  said : 

"Here  be  Bill  Troutling,  your  worship!" 

"Oh,  well,"  quoth  the  justice;  "and  now,  Mr.  Eustace 
Fitz — Hollo,  how's  this!  where  are  Mr.  William  Howard 
Russell  and  his  friend  Mr.  Eustace  Fitzherbert?" 

"  Echo  answered — Where  ?" 

Those  noble  gentlemen,  having  a  natural  dislike  to  be  con- 
fronted with  so  low  a  person  as  Mr.  Bill  Troutling,  had,  the 
instant  public  interest  was  directed  from  them,  silently  disap- 
peared from  a  scene  where  their  rank  in  life  seemed  so  little 
regarded.  If,  reader,  you  should  be  anxious  to  learn  from 
what  part  of  the  world  the  transitory  visitants  appeared,  know 
that  they  were  spirits  sent  by  that  inimitable  magician,  Long 
Ned,  partly  to  report  how  matters  fared  in  the  court ;  for  Mr. 
Pepper,  in  pursuance  of  that  old  policy  which  teaches  that  the 
nearer  the  fox  is  to  the  hunters  the  more  chance  he  has  of  being 
overlooked,  had,  immediately  on  his  abrupt  departure  from 
Paul,  dived  into  a  house  in  the  very  street  where  his  ingenuity 
had  displayed  itself,  and  in  which  oysters  and  ale  nightly  al- 
lured and  regaled  an  assembly  that,  to  speak  impartially,  was 
more  numerous  than  select :  there  had  he  learned  how  a  pick- 
pocket had  been  seized  for  unlawful  affection  to  another  man's 
watch  ;  and  there  while  he  quietly  seasoned  his  oysters,  had  he, 
with  his  charactistic  acuteness,  satisfied  his  mind  by  the  con- 

*  A  fact,  occurring  in  the  month  of  January,  i8y>. —  Vide  The  Morning  Utrald. 


72  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

viction  that  that  arrested  unfortunate  was  no  other  than  Paul. 
Partly,  therefore,  as  a  precaution  for  his  own  safety,  that  he 
might  receive  early  intelligence  should  Paul's  defence  make  a 
change  of  residence  expedient,  and  partly  (out  of  the  friendli- 
ness of  fellowship)  to  back  his  companion  with  such  aid  as  the 
favorable  testimony  of  two  well-dressed  persons,  little  known 
"about  town,"  might  confer,  he  had  despatched  those  celestial 
beings,  who  had  appeared  under  the  mortal  names  of  Eustace 
Fitzherbert  and  William  Howard  Russell,  to  the  imperial  court 
of  Justice  Burnflat.  Having  thus  accounted  for  the  apparition 
(the  disapparition  requires  no  commentary)  of  Paul's  "friends," 
we  return  to  Paul  himself. 

Despite  the  perils  with  which  he  was  girt,  our  young  hero 
fought  out  to  the  last,  but  the  justice  was  not  by  any  means 
willing  to  displease  Mr.  Brandon;  and  observing  that  an  in- 
credulous and  biting  sneer  remained  stationary  on  that  gentle- 
man's lip  during  the  whole  of  Paul's  defence,  he  could  not  but 
shape  his  decision  according  to  the  well-known  acuteness  of 
the  celebrated  lawyer.  Paul  was  accordingly  sentenced  to  re- 
tire for  three  months  to  that  country-house  situated  at  Bride- 
well, to  which  the  ungrateful  functionaries  of  justice  often  ban- 
ish their  most  active  citizens. 

As  soon  as  the  sentence  was  passed,  Brandon,  whose  keen 
eyes  saw  no  hope  of  recovering  his  lost  treasure,  declared  that 
the  rascal  had  perfectly  the  Old-Bailey  cut  of  countenance; 
and  that  he  did  not  doubt  but,  if  ever  he  lived  to  be  a  judge, 
he  should  also  live  to  pass  a  very  different  description  of  sen- 
tence on  the  offender. 

So  saying,  he  resolved  to  lose  no  more  time,  and  very 
abruptly  left  the  office,  without  any  other  comfort  than  the  re- 
membrance that,  at  all  events,  he  had  sent  the  boy  to  a  place 
where,  let  him  be  ever  so  innocent  at  present,  he  was  certain 
to  come  out  as  much  inclined  to  be  guilty  as  his  friends  could 
desire ;  joined  to  such  moral  reflection  as  the  tragedy  of  Bom- 
bastes  Furioso  might  have  afforded  to  himself  in  that  senten- 
tious and  terse  line, — 

"  Thy  watch  is  gone, — watches  are  made  to  go  /  " 

Meanwhile,  Paul  was  conducted  in  state  to  his  retreat,  in 
company  with  two  other  offenders,  one  a  middle-aged  man, 
though  a  very  old  "Jih,"  who  was  sentenced  forgetting  money 
under  false  pretences,  and  the  other  a  little  boy,  who  had  been 
found  guilty  of  sleeping  under  a  colonnade ;  it  being  the  espe- 
cial beauty  of  the  English  law  to  make  no  fine-drawn  and  non- 


PAUL   CLIFFORD. 


sensical  shades  of  difference  between  vice  and  misfortune,  and 
its  peculiar  method  of  protecting  the  honest  being  to  make  as 
many  rogues  as  possible  in  as  short  a  space  of  time. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Common  Sense. — What  is  the  end  of  punishment  as  regards  the  individual 
punished  ? 

Custom. — To  make  him  better  ! 

Common  Sense. — How  do  you  punish  young  offenders  who  are  (from 
their  youth)  peculiarly  alive  to  example,  and  whom  it  is  therefore  more  easy 
either  to  ruin  or  refoim  than  the  matured? 

Custom. — We  send  them  to  the  House  of  Correction,  to  associate  with 
the  d — dest  rascals  in  the  country  ! " 

Dialogue  between  Common  Sense  and  Custom. —  Very  scarce. 

As  it  was  rather  late  in  the  day  when  Paul  made  his  first 
entree  at  Bridewell,  he  passed  that  night  in  the  "receiving- 
room."  The  next  morning,  as  soon  as  he  had  been  examined 
by  the  surgeon,  and  clothed  in  the  customary  uniform,  he  was 
ushered,  according  to  his  classification,  among  the  good  com- 
pany who  had  been  considered  guilty  of  that  compendious 
offence,  "a  misdemeanor."  Here  a  tall  gentleman  marched  up 
to  him,  and  addressed  him  in  a  certain  language,  which  might 
be  called  the  freemasonry  of  flash ;  and  which  Paul,  though  he 
did  not  comprehend  verbatim,  rightly  understood  to  be  an  in- 
quiry whether  he  was  a  thorough  rogue  and  an  entire  rascal. 
He  answered  half  .in  confusion,  half  in  anger;  and  his  reply 
was  so  detrimental  to  any  favorable  influence  he  might  other- 
wise have  exercised  over  the  interrogator,  that  the  latter  per- 
sonage, giving  him  a  pinch  in  the  ear,  shouted  out,  "Ramp, 
ramp ! ' '  and,  at  that  significant  and  awful  word,  Paul  found 
himself  surrounded  in  a  trice  by  a  whole  host  of  ingenious  tor- 
mentors. One  pulled  this  member,  another  pinched  that ;  one 
cuffed  him  before,  and  another  thrashed  him  behind.  By 
way  of  interlude  to  this  pleasing  occupation,  they  stripped  him 
of  the  very  few  things  that  in  his  change  of  dress  he  had  re- 
tained. One  carried  off  his  handkerchief,  a  second  his  neck- 
cloth, and  a  third,  luckier  than  either,  possessed  himself  of  a 
pair  of  cornelian  shirt-buttons,  given  to  Paul  as  a  gage  d1  amour 
by  a  young  lady  who  sold  oranges  near  the  Tower.  Happily, 
before  this  initiatory  process,  technically  termed  "ramping," 
and  exercised  upon  all  new  comers  who  seem  to  have  a  spark 
of  decency  in  them,  had  reduced  the  bones  of  Paul,  who  fought 


74  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

tooth  and  nail  in  his  defence,  to  the  state  of  magnesia,  a  man 
of  a  grave  aspect,  who  had  hitherto  plucked  his  oakum  in 
quiet,  suddenly  rose,  thrust  himself  between  the  victim  and  the 
assailants,  and  desired  the  latter,  like  one  having  authority, 
to  leave  the  lad  alone,  and  go  and  be  d — d. 

This  proposal  to  resort  to  another  place  for  amusement, 
though  uttered  in  a  very  grave  and  tranquil  manner,  produced 
that  instantaneous  effect  which  admonitions  from  great  rogues 
generally  work  upon  little.  Messieurs  the  "rampers"  ceased 
from  their  amusements,  and  the  ringleader  of  the  gang,  thump- 
ing Paul  heartily  on  the  back,  declared  he  was  a  capital  fellow, 
and  it  was  only  a  bit  of  a  spree  like,  which  he  hoped  had  not 
given  any  offence. 

Paul,  still  clenching  his  fist,  was  about  to  answer  in  no  paci- 
fic mood,  when  a  turnkey,  who  did  not  care  in  the  least  how 
many  men  he  locked  up  for  an  offence,  but  who  did  not  at  all 
like  the  trouble  of  looking  after  any  one  of  his  flock  to  see  that 
the  offence  was  not  committed,  now  suddenly  appeared  among 
the  set ;  and,  after  scolding  them  for  the  excessive  plague  they 
were  to  him,  carried  off  two  of  the  poorest  of  the  mob  to  soli- 
tary confinement.  It  happened,  of  course,  that  these  two  had 
not  taken  the  smallest  share  in  the  disturbance.  This  scene 
over,  the  company  returned  to  picking  oakum, — the  tread- 
mill, that  admirably  just  invention,  by  which  a  strong  man  suf- 
fers no  fatigue,  and  a  weak  one  loses  his  health  for  life,  not 
having  been  then  introduced  into  our  excellent  establishments 
for  correcting  crime.  Bitterly,  and  with  many  dark  and  wrath- 
ful feelings,  in  which  the  sense  of  injustice  at  punishment  alone 
bore  him  up  against  the  humiliations  to  which  he  was  subjected ; 
bitterly,  and  with  a  swelling  heart,  in  which  the  thoughts  that 
lead  to  crime  were  already  forcing  their  way  through  a  soil  sud- 
denly warmed  for  their  growth,  did  Paul  bend  over  his  employ- 
ment. He  felt  himself  touched  on  the  arm ;  he  turned,  and 
saw  that  the  gentleman  who  had  so  kindly  delivered  him  from 
his  tormentors  was  now  sitting  next  to  him.  Paul  gazed  long 
and  earnestly  upon  his  neighbor,  struggling  with  the  thought 
that  he  had  beheld  that  sagacious  countenance  in  happier 
times,  although  now,  alas !  it  was  altered,  not  only  by  time  and 
vicissitude,  but  by  that  air  of  gravity  which  the  cares  of  man- 
hood spread  gradually  over  the  face  of  the  most  thoughtless, — 
until  all  doubt  melted  away,  and  he  exclaimed : 

"Is  that  you,  Mr.  Tomlinson?  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you 
here!" 

"And  I,"  returned  the  quondam  murderer  for  the  newspa- 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  75 

pers,  with  a  nasal  twang,  "should  be  very  glad  to  see  myself 
anywhere  else!" 

Paul  made  no  answer,  and  Augustus  continued : 

'To  a  wise  man  all  places  are  the  same,' — so  it  has  been 
said.  I  don't  believe  it,  Paul ;  I  don't  believe  it.  But  a  truce 
to  reflection.  I  remembered  you  the  moment  I  saw  you, 
though  you  are  surprisingly  grown.  How  is  my  friend  Mac 
Crawler?  still  hard  at  work  for  'The  Asinaeum  '?" 

"I  believe  so,"  said  Paul  sullenly,  and  hastening  to  change 
the  conversation;  "but  tell  me,  Mr.  Tomlinson,  how  came  you 
hither?  I  heard  you  had  gone  down  to  the  north  of  England 
to  fulfil  a  lucrative  employment." 

"Possibly!  the  world  always  misrepresents  the  actions  of 
those  who  are  constantly  before  it!" 

"It  is  very  true,"  said  Paul;  "and  I  have  said  the  same 
thing  myself  a  hundred  times  in  'The  Asinaeum,'  for  we  were 
never  too  lavish  of  our  truths  in  that  magnificent  journal.  'Tis 
astonishing  what  a  way  we  made  three  ideas  go." 

"You  remind  me  of  myself  and  my  newspaper  labors,"  re- 
joined Augustus  Tomlinson:  "I  am  not  quite  sure  that  /had 
so  many  as  three  ideas  to  spare ;  for,  as  you  say,  it  is  astonish- 
ing how  far  that  number  may  go,  properly  managed.  It  is 
with  writers  as  with  strolling  players,  the  same  three  ideas  that 
did  for  Turks  in  one  scene  do  for  Highlanders  in  the  next: 
but  you  must  tell  me  your  history  one  of  these  days,  and  you 
shall  hear  mine." 

"I  should  be  excessively  obliged  to  you  for  your  confi- 
dence," said  Paul,  "and  I  doubt  not  but  your  life  must  be 
excessively  entertaining.  Mine,  as  yet,  has  been  but  insipid. 
The  lives  of  literary  men  are  not  fraught  with  adventure ;  and 
I  question  whether  every  writer  in  'The  Asinaeum'  has  not  led 
pretty  nearly  the  same  existence  as  that  which  I  have  sus- 
tained myself." 

In  conversation  of  this  sort  our  newly  restored  friends  passed 
the  remainder  of  the  day,  until  the  hour  of  half-past  four,  when 
the  prisoners  are  to  suppose  night  has  begun,  and  be  locked  up 
in  their  bedrooms.  Tomlinson  then,  who  was  glad  to  re-find 
a  person  who  had  known  him  in  his  beaux  jours,  spoke  pri- 
vately to  the  turnkey;  and  the  result  of  the  conversation 
was  the  coupling  Paul  and  Augustus  in  the  same  chamber, 
which  was  a  sort  of  stone  box,  that  generally  accommodated 
three,  and  was — for  we  have  measured  it,  as  we  would  have 
measured  the  cell  of  the  prisoner  of  Chillon — just  eight  feet 
by  six. 


76  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

We  do  not  intend,  reader,  to  indicate,  by  broad  colors  and 
in  long  detail,  the  moral  deterioration  of  our  hero ;  because  we 
have  found,  by  experience,  that  such  pains  on  our  part  do  little 
more  than  make  thee  blame  our  stupidity  instead  of  lauding 
our  intention.  We  shall  therefore  only  work  out  our  moral  by 
subtle  hints  and  brief  comments ;  and  we  shall  now  content 
ourselves  with  reminding  thee  that  hitherto  thou  hast  seen  Paul 
honest  in  the  teeth  of  circumstances.  Despite  the  contagion 
of  the  Mug ;  despite  his  associates  in  Fish  Lane ;  despite  his 
intimacy  with  Long  Ned,  thou  hast  seen  him  brave  temptation, 
and  look  forward  to  some  other  career  than  that  of  robbery  and 
fraud.  Nay,  even  in  his  destitution,  when  driven  from  the 
abode  of  his  childhood,  thou  hast  observed  how,  instead  of 
resorting  to  some  more  pleasurable  or  libertine  road  of  life,  he 
betook  himself  at  once  to  the  dull  roof  and  insipid  employments 
of  Mac  Crawler,  and  preferred  honestly  earning  his  subsistence 
by  the  sweat  of  his  brain  to  recurring  to  any  of  the  numerous 
ways  of  living  on  others  with  which  his  experience  among  the 
worst  part  of  society  must  have  teemed,  and  which,  to  say  the 
least  of  them,  are  more  alluring  to  the  young  and  adventurous 
than  the  barren  paths  of  literary  labor.  Indeed,  to  let  thee 
into  a  secret,  it  had  been  Paul's  daring  ambition  to  raise  him- 
self into  a  worthy  member  of  the  community.  His  present  cir- 
cumstances, it  may  hereafter  be  seen,  made  the  cause  of  a  great 
change  in  his  desires ;  and  the  conversation  he  held  that  night 
with  the  ingenious  and  skilful  Augustus  went  more  towards  fit- 
ting him  for  the  hero  of  this  work  than  all  the  habits  of  his 
childhood  or  the  scenes  of  his  earlier  youth.  Young  people 
are  apt,  erroneously,  to  believe  that  it  is  a  bad  thing  to  be  ex- 
ceedingly wicked.  The  House  of  Correction  is  so  called, 
because  it  is  a  place  where  so  ridiculous  a  notion  is  invariably 
corrected. 

The  next  day  Paul  was  surprised  by  a  visit  from  Mrs.  Lob- 
kins,  who  had  heard  of  his  situation  and  its  causes  from  the 
friendly  Dummie,  and  who  had  managed  to  obtain  from  Justice 
Burnflat  an  order  of  admission.  They  met,  Pyramus  and 
Thisbe  like,  with  a  wall,  or  rather  an  iron  gate,  between  them: 
and  Mrs.  Lobkins,  after  an  ejaculation  of  despair  at  the  obsta- 
cle, burst  weepingly  into  the  pathetic  reproach : 

"O  Paul,  thou  hast  brought  thy  pigs  to  a  fine  market!" 
"Tis  a  market  proper  for  pigs,  dear  dame, "  said  Paul,  who, 
though  with  a  tear  in  his  eye,  did  not  refuse  a  joke  as  bitter  as 
it  was  inelegant;  "for,  of  all  others,  it  is  the  spot  where  a  man 
learns  to  take  care  of  his  bacon." 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  77 

"Hold  your  tongue!"  cried  the  dame  angrily.  "What  busi- 
ness has  you  to  gabble  on  so  while  you  are  in  limbo?" 

"Ah,  dear  dame,"  said  Paul,  "we  can't  help  these  rubs  and 
stumbles  on  our  road  to  preferment!" 

"Road  to  the  scragging  post!"  cried  the  dame.  "I  tells 
you,  child,  you'll  live  to  be  hanged  in  spite  of  all  my  care  and 
'tention  to  you,  though  I  hedicated  you  as  a  scholard,  and  always 
hoped  as  how  you  would  grow  up  to  be  an  honor  to  your — " 

"King  and  country,"  interrupted  Paul.  "We  always  say 
honor  to  king  and  country,  which  means  getting  rich  and  pay- 
ing taxes.  'The  more  taxes  a  man  pays,  the  greater  honor  he 
is  to  both,'  as  Augustus  says.  Well,  dear  dame,  all  in  good 
time." 

"What!  you  is  merry,  is  you?  Why  does  not  you  weep? 
Your  heart  is  as  hard  as  a  brickbat.  It  looks  quite  unnatural 
and  hyena-like,  to  be  so  devil- me-carish  !' '  So  saying,  the  good 
dame's  tears  gushed  forth  with  the  bitterness  of  a  despairing 
Parisina. 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  Paul,  who,  though  he  suffered  far  more 
intensely,  bore  the  suffering  far  more  easily  than  his  patroness, 
"we  cannot  mend  the  matter  by  crying.  Suppose  you  see  what 
can  be  done  for  me.  I  dare  say  you  may  manage  to  soften  the 
justice's  sentence  by  a  little  'oil  of  palms' ;  and  if  you  can  get 
me  out  before  I  am  quite  corrupted — a  day  or  two  longer  in 
this  infernal  place  will  do  the  business — I  promise  you  that  I  will 
not  only  live  honestly  myself,  but  with  people  who  live  in  the 
same  manner." 

"Buss  me,  Paul,"  said  the  tender  Mrs.  Lobkins,  "buss  me, — 
oh!  but  I  forgits  the  gate;  I'll  see  what  can  be  done.  And 
here,  my  lad,  here's  summat  for  you  in  the  mean  while — a  drop 
o'  the  cretur,  to  preach  comfort  to  your  poor  stomach.  Hush! 
smuggle  it  through,  or  they'll  see  you." 

Here  the  dame  endeavored  to  push  a  stone  bottle  through 
the  bars  of  the  gate;  but,  alas!  though  the  neck  passed 
through,  the  body  refused,  and  the  dame  was  forced  to  extract 
the  "cretur."  Upon  this,  the  kind-hearted  woman  renewed 
her  sobbings ;  and  so  absorbed  was  she  in  her  grief,  that,  seem- 
ingly quite  forgetting  for  what  purpose  she  had  brought  the 
bottle,  she  applied  it  to  her  own  mouth,  and  consoled  herself 
with  that  elixir  vita  which  she  had  originally  designed  for  Paul. 

This  somewhat  restored  her;  and  after  a  most  affecting  scene 
the  dame  reeled  off  with  the  vacillating  steps  natural  to  woe, 
promising,  as  she  went,  that,  if  love  or  money  could  shorten 
Paul's  confinement,  neither  should  be  wanting.  We  are  rather 


78  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

at  a  loss  to  conjecture  the  exact  influence  which  the  former  of 
these  arguments,  urged  by  the  lovely  Margaret,  might  have 
had  upon  Justice  Burnflat. 

When  the  good  dame  had  departed  Paul  hastened  to  repick 
his  oakum  and  rejoin  his  friend.  He  found  the  worthy  Augus- 
tus privately  selling  little  elegant  luxuries,  such  as  tobacco,  gin, 
and  rations  of  daintier  viands  than  the  prison  allowed;  for 
Augustus,  having  more  money  than  the  rest  of  his  companions, 
managed,  through  the  friendship  of  the  turnkey,  to  purchase 
secretly,  and  to  resell  at  about  four  hundred  per  cent.,  such 
comforts  as  the  prisoners  especially  coveted.* 

"A  proof,"  said  Augustus  dryly  to  Paul,  "that,  by  prudence 
and  exertion,  even  in  those  places  where  a  man  cannot  turn 
himself,  he  may  manage  to  turn  a  penny ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  '  Relate  at  large,  my  godlike  guest,'  she  said, 
4  The  Grecian  stratagems, — the  town  betrayed  ! ' " 

DRYDEN'S  Virgil,  b.  ii.  ^En. 

"  Descending  thence,  they  'scaped  !  " — Ibid. 

A  GREAT  improvement  had  taken  place  in  the  character  of 
Augustus  Tomlinson  since  Paul  had  last  encountered  that  illus- 
trious man.  Then,  Augustus  had  affected  the  man  of  pleas- 
ure— the  learned  lounger  about  town — the  all-accomplished 
Pericles  of  the  papers — gaily  quoting  Horace — gravely  flanking 
a  fly  from  the  leader  of  Lord  Dunshunner.  Now,  a  more  seri- 
ous, yet  not  a  less  supercilious  air  had  settled  upon  his  fea- 
tures; the  pretence  of  fashion  had  given  away  to  the  pretence 
of  wisdom ;  and,  from  the  man  of  pleasure,  Augustus  Tomlin- 
son had  grown  to  the  philosopher.  With  this  elevation  alone,  too, 
he  was  not  content:  he  united  the  philosopher  with  the  politi- 
cian ;  and  the  ingenious  rascal  was  pleased  especially  to  pique 
himself  upon  being  "a  moderate  Whig!"  "Paul,"  he  was 
wont  to  observe,  "believe  me,  moderate  Whiggism  is  a  most 
excellent  creed.  It  adapts  itself  to  every  possible  change,  to 
every  conceivable  variety  of  circumstance.  It  is  the  only  pol- 
itics for  us  who  are  the  aristocrats  of  that  free  body  who  rebel 

*  A  very  common  practice  at  the  Bridewells.  The  governor  at  the  Coldbath-Fields, 
apparently  a  very  intelligent  and  active  man,  every  way  fitted  for  a  most  arduous^  under- 
taking, informed  us,  in  the  only  conversation  we  have  had  the  honor  to  hold  with  him. 
that  he  thought  he  had  nearly,  or  quite,  destroyed  in  his  jurisdiction  this  illegal  method  ot 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  79 

against  tyrannical  laws!  for,  hang  it,  I  am  none  of  your  demo- 
crats. Let  there  be  dungeons  and  turnkeys  for  the  low  rascals 
who  whip  clothes  from  the  hedge  where  they  hang  to  dry,  or 
steal  down  an  area  in  quest  of  a  silver  spoon ;  but  houses  of 
correction  are  not  made  for  men  who  have  received  an  enlight- 
ened education ;  who  abhor  your  petty  thefts  as  much  as  a 
justice  of  peace  can  do, — who  ought  never  to  be  termed  dis- 
honest in  their  dealings,  but,  if  they  are  found  out,  'unlucky  in 
their  speculations  /'*  A  pretty  thing,  indeed,  that  there  should 
be  distinctions  of  rank  among  other  members  of  the  commu- 
nity, and  none  among  us!  Where's  your  boasted  British  con- 
stitution, I  should  like  to  know ;  where  are  your  privileges  of  aris- 
tocracy, if  I,  who  am  a  gentleman  born,  know  Latin,  and  have 
lived  in  the  best  society,  should  be  thrust  into  this  abominable 
place  with  a  dirty  fellow,  who  was  born  in  a  cellar,  and  could 
never  earn  more  at  a  time  than  would  purchase  a  sausage? 
No,  no!  none  of  your  levelling  principles  for  me!  I  am  liberal, 
Paul,  and  love  liberty;  but,  thank  Heaven,  I  despise  your 
democracies ! ' ' 

Thus,  half  in  earnest,  half  veiling  a  natural  turn  to  sarcasm, 
would  this  moderate  Whig  run  on  for  the  hour  together,  during 
those  long  nights,  commencing  at  half-past  four,  in  which  he 
and  Paul  bore  each  other  company. 

One  evening,  when  Tomlinson  was  so  bitterly  disposed  to  be 
prolix  that  Paul  felt  himself  somewhat  wearied  by  his  eloquence, 
our  hero,  desirous  of  a  change  in  the  conversation,  reminded 
Augustus  of  his  promise  to  communicate  his  history;  and  the 
philosophical  Whig,  nothing  loath  to  speak  of  himself,  cleared 
his  throat,  and  began. 


HISTORY    OF   AUGUSTUS   TOMLTNSON. 

"Never  mind  who  was  my  father,  nor  what  was  my  native 
place!  My  first  ancestor  was  Tommy  Linn — (his  heir  became 
Tom  Linn's  son) — you  have  heard  the  ballad  in  his  praise: 

'  Tommy  Linn  is  a  Scotchman  born, 
His  head  is  bald,  and  his  beard  is  shorn  ; 
He  had  a  cap  made  of  a  hare  skin, — 
An  elder  man  is  Tommy  Linn  !  '  f 

"There  was  a  sort  of  prophecy  respecting  my  ancestor's  de« 

*  A  phrase  applied  to  a  noted  defaulter  of  the  public  money, 
t  S«e  Ritson's  North  Cmniry  CAfritttr. 


So  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

scendants  darkly  insinuated  in  the  concluding  stanza  of  this 

ballad: 

'  Tommy  Linn,  and  his  wife,  and  his  wife's  mother, 
They  all  fell  into  the  fire  together  ; 
They  that  lay  undermost  got  a  hot  skin. — 
"  We  are  not  enough  !  "  said  Tommy  Linn.'  * 

"You  see  the  prophecy;  it  is  applicable  both  to  gentlemen 
rogues  and  to  moderate  Whigs ;  for  both  are  undermost  in  the 
world,  and  both  are  perpetually  bawling  out,  '  We  are  not 
enough  !  ' 

"I  shall  begin  my  own  history  by  saying,  I  went  to  a  North 
Country  school ;  where  I  was  noted  for  my  aptness  in  learning, 
and  my  skill  at  'prisoner's  base' — upon  my  word  I  purposed 
no  pun !  I  was  intended  for  the  church :  wishing,  betimes,  to 
instruct  myself  in  its  ceremonies,  I  persuaded  my  school- 
master's maid-servant  to  assist  me  towards  promoting  a  christen- 
ing. My  father  did  not  like  this  premature  love  for  the  sacred 
rites.  He  took  me  home ;  and,  wishing  to  give  my  clerical 
ardor  a  different  turn,  prepared  me  for  writing  sermons,  by 
reading  me  a  dozen  a  day.  I  grew  tired  of  this,  strange  as  it 
may  seem  to  you,  'Father,'  said  I,  one  morning,  'it  is  no  use 
talking,  I  will  not  go  into  the  church — that's  positive.  £ive 
me  your  blessing,  and  a  hundred  pounds,  and  I'll  go  up  to 
London,  and  get  a  living  instead  of  a  curacy.'  My  father 
stormed,  but  I  got  the  better  at  last.  I  talked  of  becoming  a 
private  tutor;  swore  I  had  heard  nothing  was  so  easy, — the 
only  things  wanted  were  pupils ;  and  the  only  way  to  get  them 
was  to  go  to  London,  and  let  my  learning  be  known.  My 
poor  father! — well,  he's  gone,  and  I  am  glad  of  it  now!"  (the 
speaker's  voice  faltered) — "I  got  the  better.  I  say,  and  I  came  to 
town,  where  I  had  a  relation  a  bookseller.  Through  his  in- 
terest I  wrote  a  book  of  Travels  in  ^Ethiopia  for  an  earl's  son, 
who  wanted  to  become  a  lion ;  and  a  Treatise  on  the  Greek 
Particle,  dedicated  to  the  prime  minister,  for  a  dean,  who 
wanted  to  become  a  bishop, — Greek  being,  next  to  interest,  the 
best  road  to  the  mitre.  These  two  achievements  were  liberally 
paid;  so  I  took  a  lodging  in  a  first  floor,  and  resolved  to  make 
a  bold  stroke  for  a  wife.  What  do  you  think  I  did?  Nay,  never 
guess,  it  would  be  hopeless.  First,  I  went  to  the  best  tailor, 
and  had  my  clothes  sewn  on  my  back ;  secondly,  I  got  the 
peerage  and  its  genealogies  by  heart ;  thirdly,  I  marched  one 
night,  with  the  coolest  deliberation  possible,  into  the  house  of 
a  duchess,  who  was  giving  an  immense  rout !  The  newspapers 

*  ibid. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD,  8l 

had  inspired  me  with  this  idea.  I  had  read  of  the  vast  crowds 
which  a  lady  'at  home'  sought  to  win  to  her  house.  I  had  read 
of  staircases  impassable,  and  ladies  carried  out  in  a  fit;  and 
common-sense  told  me  how  impossible  it  was  that  the  fair  re- 
ceiver should  be  acquainted  with  the  legality  of  every  importa- 
tion. I  therefore  resolved  to  try  my  chance,  and — entered  the 
body  of  Augustus  Tomlinson,  as  a  piece  of  stolen  goods.  Faith! 
the  first  night  I  was  shy.  I  stuck  to  the  staircase,  and  ogled  an 
old  maid  of  quality,  whom  I  had  heard  announced  as  Lady 
Margaret  Sinclair.  Doubtless,  she  had  never  been  ogled  before ; 
and  she  was  evidently  enraptured  with  my  glances.  The  next 

night  I  read  of  a  ball  at  the  Countess  of .    My  heart  beat  aL 

if  I  were  going  to  be  whipped ;  but  I  plucked  up  courage,  and 
repaired  to  her  ladyship's.  There  I  again  beheld  the  divine 
Lady  Margaret;  and,  observing  that  she  turned  yellow,  by  way 
of  a  blush,  when  she  saw  me,  I  profited  by  the  port  I  had  drunk 
as  an  encouragement  to  my  entree,  and  lounging  up  in  the  most 
modish  way  possible,  I  reminded  her  ladyship  of  an  introduc- 
tion with  which  I  said  I  had  once  been  honored  at  the  Duke  of 
Dash  well's,  and  requested  her  hand  for  the  next  cotillon.  Oh, 
Paul !  fancy  my  triumph !  the  old  damsel  said  with  a  sigh,  'She 
remembered  me  very  well, '  ha !  ha !  ha !  and  I  carried  her  off  to 
the  cotillon  like  another  Theseus  bearing  away  a  second  Ariadne. 
Not  to  be  prolix  on  this  part  of  my  life,  I  went  night  after 
night  to  balls  and  routs,  for  admission  to  which  half  the  fine 
gentlemen  in  London  would  have  given  their  ears.  And  I  im- 
proved my  time  so  well  with  Lady  Margaret,  who  was  her  own 
mistress,  and  had  five  thousand  pounds — a  devilish  bad  portion 
for  some,  but  not  to  be  laughed  at  by  me — that  I  began  to  think 
when  the  happy  day  should  be  fixed.  Meanwhile,  as  Lady 
Margaret  introduced  me  to  some  of  her  friends,  and  my  lodg- 
ings were  in  a  good  situation,  I  had  been  honored  with  some 
real  invitations.  The  only  two  questions  I  ever  was  asked  were 
(carelessly),  'Was  I  the  only  son?'  and  on  my  veritable  answer 
'Yes!'  'What  (this  was  more  warmly  put) — what  was  my 
county?'  Luckily,  my  county  was  a  wide  one, — Yorkshire ;  and 
any  of  its  inhabitants  whom  the  fair  interrogators  might  have 
questioned  about  me  could  only  have  answered,  'I  was  not  in 
their  part  of  it.' 

"Well,  Paul,  I  grew  so  bold  by  success,  that  the  devil  one 
day  put  into  my  head  to  go  to  a  great  dinner-party  at  the  Duke 
of  Dashwell's.  I  went,  dined, — nothing  happened:  I  came 
away,  and  the  next  morning  I  read  in  the  papers: 

'  'Mysterious    affair, — person    lately     going     about, — first 


82  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

houses — most  fashionable  parties — nobody  knows — Duke  of 
Dashwell's  yesterday.  Duke  not  like  to  make  disturbance — • 
as — royalty  present.'* 

"The  journal  dropped  from  my  hands.  At  that  moment, 
the  girl  of  the  house  gave  me  a  note  from  Lady  Margaret, — 
alluded  to  the  paragraph ;  wondered  who  was  '  the  Stranger' ; 

hoped  to  see  me  that  night  at   Lord  A 's,  to   whose  party 

I  said  I  had  been  asked;  speak  then  more  fully  on  those 
matters  I  had  touched  on ! — in  short,  dear  Paul,  a  tender  epistle! 
All  great  men  are  fatalists :  I  am  one  now :  fate  made  me  a  mad- 
man :  in  the  very  face  of  this  ominous  paragraph  I  mustered  up 

courage,  and  went  that  night  to  Lord  A 's.     The  fact  is, 

my  affairs  were  in  confusion ;  I  was  greatly  in  debt :  I  knew  it 
was  necessary  to  finish  my  conquest  over  Lady  Margaret  as  soon 

as  possible ;  and  Lord  A 's  seemed  the  best  place  for  the 

purpose.  Nay,  I  thought  delay  so  dangerous,  after  the  cursed 
paragraph,  that  a  day  might  unmask  me,  and  it  would  be  better 
therefore  not  to  lose  an  hour  in  finishing  the  play  of  'The 
Stranger,' with  the  farce  of  the  'Honey  Moon.'  Behold  me 

then  at  Lord  A 's,  leading  off  Lady  Margaret  to  the  dance. 

Behold  me  whispering  the  sweetest  of  things  in  her  ear.  Im- 
agine her  approving  my  suit,  and  gently  chiding  me  for  talking 
of  Gretna  Green.  Conceive  all  this,  my  dear  fellow,  and  just 
at  the  height  of  my  triumph,  dilate  the  eyes  of  your  imagination, 

and  behold  the  stately  form  of  Lord  A ,   my  noble  host, 

marching  up  to  me,  while  a  voice  that,  though  low  and  quiet 
as  an  evening  breeze,  made  my  heart  sink  into  my  shoes,  said, 
'I  believe,  sir,  you  have  received  no  invitation  from  Lady 
A ?' 

"Not  a  word  could  I  utter,  Paul,  not  a  word.  Had  it  been 
the  high-road  instead  of  a  ball-room,  I  could  have  talked  loudly 
enough,  but  I  was  under  a  spell.  'Ehem!'  I  faltered  at 
last:  'E-h-e-m!  Some  mis-take,  I — I.'  There  I  stopped. 
Sir,'  said  the  Earl,  regarding  me  with  a  grave  sternness,  'you 
had  better  withdraw!' 

'  'Bless  me!  what's  all  this?'  cried  Lady  Margaret,  dropping 
my  palsied  arm,  and  gazing  on  me  as  if  she  expected  me  to 
talk  like  a  hero. 

'  'Oh,'  said  I,  'Eh-e-m,  eh-e-m,  I  will  exp-lain  to-mor- 
row, ehem,  e-h-e-m.'  I  made  to  the  door;  all  the  eyes 
in  the  room  seemed  turned  '  into  burning  glasses,  and  blis- 
tered the  very  skin  on  my  face.  I  heard  a  gentle  shriek  as  I 
\efttheapartment;  Lady  Margaret  fainting,  I  suppose!  There 

*  Fact. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  3 

ended  my  courtship  and  my  adventures  in  'the  best  society.' 
I  fell  melancholy  at  the  ill  success  of  my  scheme.  You  must 
allow,  it  was  a  magnificent  project.  What  moral  courage!  I 
admire  myself  when  I  think  of  it.  Without  an  introduction, 
without  knowing  a  soul,  to  become,  all  by  my  own  resolution, 
free  of  the  finest  houses  in  London,  dancing  with  earls'  daugh- 
ters, and  all  but  carrying  off  an  earl's  daughter  myself  as  my 
wife.  If  I  had,  the  friends-///^/  have  done  something  forme; 
and  Lady  Margaret  Tomlinson  might  perhaps  have  introduced 
the  youthful  genius  of  her  Augustus  to  Parliament  or  the  minis- 
try. Oh,  what  a  fall  was  there !  yet  faith,  ha !  ha !  ha !  I 
could  not  help  laughing,  despite  of  my  chagrin,  when  I  remem- 
bered that  for  three  months  I  had  imposed  on  these  'delicate 
exclusives, '  and  been  literally  invited  by  many  of  them,  who 
would  not  have  asked  the  younger  sons  of  their  own  cousins ; 
merely  because  I  lived  in  a  good  street,  avowed  myself  an 
only  child,  and  talked  of  my  property  in  Yorkshire!  Ha,  ha! 
how  bitter  the  mercenary  dupes  must  have  felt  when  the  dis- 
covery was  made!  what  a  pill  for  the  good  matrons  who  had 
coupled  my  image  with  that  of  some  filial  Mary  or  Jane, — na ! 
ha!  ha!  the  triumph  was  almost  worth  the  mortification.  How- 
ever, as  I  said  before,  I  fell  melancholy  on  it,  especially  as  my 
duns  became  menacing.  So,  I  went  to  consult  with  my  cousin 
the  bookseller:  he  recommended  me  to  compose  for  the  jour- 
nals, and  obtained  me  an  offer.  I  went  to  work  very  patiently 
for  a  short  time,  and  contracted  some  agreeable  friendships 
with  gentlemen  whom  I  met  at  an  ordinary  in  St.  James's. 
Still,  my  duns,  though  I  paid  them  by  driblets,  were  the  plague 
of  my  life :  I  confessed  as  much  to  one  of  my  new  friends. 
'Come  to  Bath  with  me,'  quoth  he,  'for  a  week,  and  you  shall 
return  as  rich  as  a  Jew.'  I  accepted  the  offer,  and  went  to 
Bath  in  my  friend's  chariot.  He  took  the  name  of  Lord  Dun- 
shunner,  an  Irish  peer  who  had  never  been  out  of  Tipperary, 
and  was  not  therefore  likely  to  be  known  at  Bath.  He 
took  also  a  house  for  a  year,  filled  it  with  wines,  books,  and  a 
sideboard  of  plate:  as  he  talked  vaguely  of  setting  up  his 
younger  brother  to  stand  for  the  town  at  the  next  Parliament, 
he  bought  these  goods  of  the  townspeople,  in  order  to  encour- 
age their  trade:  I  managed  secretly  to  transport  them  to  Lon- 
don and  sell  them;  and  as  we  disposed  of  them  fifty  per  cent, 
under  cost  price,  our  customers,  the  pawnbrokers,  were  not  very 
inquisitive.  We  lived  a  jolly  life  at  Bath  for  a  couple  of 
months,  and  departed  one  night,  leaving  our  housekeeper  to 
answer  all  interrogatories.  V,\>  h  id  taken  the  precaution  to 


84  PAtJL    CLIFFORD, 

wear  disguises,  had  stuffed  ourselves  out,  and  changed  the 
hues  of  our  hair:  my  noble  friend  was  an  adept  in  these  trans- 
formations, and  though  the  police  did  not  sleep  on  the  busi- 
ness, they  never  stumbled  on  us.  I  am  especially  glad  we 
were  not  discovered,  for  I  liked  Bath  excessively,  and  I  in- 
tend to  return  there  some  of  these  days  and  retire  from  the 
world — on  an  heiress! 

"Well,  Paul,  shortly  after  this  adventure,  I  made  your  ac- 
quaintance. I  continued  ostensibly  my  literary  profession,  but 
only  as  a  mask  for  the  labors  I  did  not  profess.  A  circum- 
stance obliged  me  to  leave  London  rather  precipitately.  Lord 
Dunshunner  joined  me  in  Edinburgh.  D — n  it,  instead  of 
doing  anything  there,  we  were  done!  The  veriest  urchin  that 
ever  crept  through  the  High  Street  is  more  tnan  a  match  for 
the  most  scientific  of  Englishmen.  With  us  it  is  art;  with  the 
Scotch  it  is  nature.  They  pick  your  pockets,  without  using 
their  fingers  for  it ;  and  they  prevent  reprisal,  by  having  noth- 
ing for  you  to  pick. 

"We  left  Edinburgh  with  very  long  faces,  and  at  Carlisle  we 
found  it  necessary  to  separate.  For  my  part,  I  went  as  a  valet 
to  a. nobleman  who  had  just  lost  his  last  servant  at  Carlisle  by  a 
fever :  my  friend  gave  me  the  best  of  characters.  My  new  mas- 
ter was  a  very  clever  man.  He  astonished  people  at  dinner  by 
the  impromptus  he  prepared  at  breakfast ;  in  a  word,  he  was 
a  wit.  He  soon  saw,  for  he  was  learned  himself,  that  I  had 
received  a  classical  education,  and  he  employed  me  in  the  con- 
fidential capacity  of  finding  quotations  for  him.  I  classed  these 
alphabetically  and  under  three  heads :  'Parliamentary,  Liter- 
ary, Dining-out.'  These  were  again  subdivided  into 'Fine/- 
"Learned,"  and  'Jocular';  so  that  my  master  knew  at  once 
where  to  refer  for  genius,  wisdom,  and  wit.  He  was  delighted 
with  my  management  of  his  intellects.  In  compliment  to  him, 
I  paid  more  attention  to  politics  than  I  had  done  before,  for  he 
was  a  'great  Whig, '  and  uncommonly  liberal  in  everything, — 
but  money !  Hence,  Paul,  the  origin  of  my  political  principles ; 
and,  I  thank  Heaven,  there  is  not  now  a  rogue  in  England  who 
is  a  better,  that  is  to  say,  more  of  a  moderate  Whig  than  your 
humble  servant !  I  continued  with  him  nearly  a  year.  He 
discharged  me  for  a  fault  worthy  of  my  genius;  other  servants 
may  lose  the  watch  or  the  coat  of  their  master;  I  went  at 
nobler  game  and  lost  him — his  private  character!  ''' 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

'  'Why,  I  was  enamoured  of  a  lady  who  would  not  have  looked 
^t  me  as  Mr.  Tomlinson;  so  I  took  my  master's  clothes,  and 


i>AtiL 

occasionally  his  carriage,  and  made  love  to  my  nymph,  as  Lord 

— .  Her  vanity  made  her  indiscreet.  The  Tory  papers  got 
hold  of  it;  and  my  master,  in  a  change  of  ministers,  was  declared 
by  George  the  Third  to  be  'too  gay  for  a  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer.' An  old  gentleman  who  had  had  fifteen  children  by  a 
wife  like  a  Gorgon  was  chosen  instead  of  my  master :  and  al- 
though the  new  minister  was  a  fool  in  his  public  capacity,  the 
moral  public  were  perfectly  content  with  him,  because  of  his 
private  virtues  ! 

"My  master  was  furious,  made  the  strictest  inquiry,  found 
me  out,  and  turned  me  out  too ! 

"A  Whig  not  in  place  has  an  excuse  for  disliking  the  consti- 
tution. My  distress  almost  made  me  a  republican ;  but,  true 
to  my  creed,  I  must  confess  that  I  would  only  have  levelled 
upwards.  I  especially  disaffected  the  inequality  of  riches:  I 
looked  moodily  on  every  carriage  that  passed.  I  even  frowned 
like  a  second  Catiline  at  the  steam  of  a  gentleman's  kitchen ! 
My  last  situation  had  not  been  lucrative ;  I  had  neglected  my 
perquisites,  in  my  ardor  for  politics.  My  master,  too,  refused 
to  give  me  a  character :  who  would  take  me  without  one? 

"I  was  asking  myself  this  melancholy  question  one  morning, 
when  I  suddenly  encountered  one  of  the  fine  friends  I  had 
picked  up  at  my  old  haunt,  the  ordinary,  in  St.  James's.  His 
name  was  Pepper." 

"Pepper!"  cried  Paul. 

Without  heeding  the  exclama.tion,  Tomlinson  continued : 

"We  went  to  a  tavern  and  drank  a  bottle  together.  Wine 
made  me  communicative;  it  also  opened  my  comrade's  heart. 
He  asked  me  to  take  a  ride  with  him  that  night  toward* 
Hounslow:  I  did  so,  and  found  a  purse," 

"How  fortunate!     Where?" 

"In  a  gentleman's  pocket.  I  was  so  pleased  with  my  luck, 
that  I  went  the  same  road  twice  a  week,  in  order  to  see  if  I 
could  pick  up  any  more  purses.  Fate  favored  me,  and  I  lived 
for  a  long  time  the  life  of  the  blest.  Oh,  Paul,  you  know  not — 
you  know  not  what  a  glorious  life  is  that  of  a  highwayman : 
but  you  shall  taste  it  one  of  these  days;  you  shall,  on  my 
honor. 

"I  now  lived  with  a  club  of  honest  fellows:  we  called  our- 
selves'The  Exclusives, '  for  we  were  mighty  reserved  in  our 
associates,  and  only  those  who  did  business  on  a  grand  scale 
were  admitted  into  our  set.  For  my  part,  with  all  my  love  for 
my  profession,  I  liked  ingenuity  still  better  than  force,  and  pre- 
ferred what  the  vulgar  call  s-.vindling,  even  to  the  highroad. 


86  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

On  an  expedition  of  this  sort,  I  rode  once  into  a  country  town, 
and  saw  a  crowd  assembled  in  one  corner;  I  joined  it,  and, — - 
guess  my  feelings!  beheld  my  poor  friend,  Viscount  Dun- 
shunner,  just  about  to  be  hanged!  I  rode  off  as  fast  as  I 
could ;  I  thought  I  saw  Jack  Ketch  at  my  heels.  My  horse 
threw  me  at  a  hedge,  and  I  broke  my  collar-bone.  In  the  con- 
finement that  ensued  gloomy  ideas  floated  before  me.  I  did 
not  like  to  be  hanged!  so  I  reasoned  against  my  errors,  and 
repented.  I  recovered  slowly,  returned  to  town,  and  repaired 
to  my  cousin  the  bookseller.  To  say  truth,  I  had  played  him  a 
little  trick :  collected  some  debts  of  his  by  a  mistake, — very  nat- 
ural in  the  confusion  incident  on  my  distresses.  However,  he 
was  extremely  unkind  about  it ;  and  the  mistake,  natural  as  it 
was,  had  cost  me  his  acquaintance. 

"I  went  now  to  him  with  the  penitential  aspect  of  the  prodigal 
son,  and,  faith,  he  would  not  have  made  a,  bad  representation 
of  the  fatted  calf  about  to  be  killed  on  my  return :  so  corpulent 
looked  he,  and  so  dejected!  'Graceless  reprobate!'  he  began, 
'your  poor  father  is  dead ! '  I  was  exceedingly  shocked !  but — 
never  fear,  Paul,  I  am  not  about  to  be  pathetic.  My  father  had 
divided  his  fortune  among  all  his  children  ;  my  share  was  £500. 
The  possession  of  this  sum  made  my  penitence  seem  much 
more  sincere  in  the  eyes  of  my  good  cousin !  and  after  a  very 
pathetic  scene  he  took  me  once  more  into  favor.  I  now  con- 
sulted with  him  as  to  the  best  method  of  laying  out  my  capital 
and  recovering  my  character.  We  could  not  devise  any 
scheme  at  the  first  conference ;  but  the  second  time  I  saw  him, 
my  cousin  said  with  a  cheerful  countenance,  'Cheer  up,  Augus- 
tus, I  have  got  thee  a  situation.  Mr.  Asgrave,  the  banker,  will 
take  thee  as  a  clerk.  He  is  a  most  worthy  man ;  and  having  a 
vast  deal  of  learning,  he  will  respect  thee  for  thy  acquirements.' 
The  same  day  I  was  introduced  to  Mr.  Asgrave,  who  was  a  lit- 
tle man  with  a  fine  bald  benevolent  head ;  and  after  a  long  con- 
versation which  he  was  pleased  to  hold  with  me,  I  became  one 
of  his  quill-drivers.  I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  by  little 
and  little  I  rose  in  my  master's  good  graces:  I  propitiated  him 
I  fancy,  by  disposing  of  my  £500,  according  to  his  advice:  he 
laid  it  out  for  me,  on  what  he  said  was  famous  security,  on  a 
landed  estate.  Mr.  Asgrave  was  of  social  habits ;  he  had  a 
capital  house  and  excellent  wines.  As  he  was  not  very  partic- 
ular in  his  company,  nor  ambitious  of  visiting  the  great,  he  of  ten 
suffered  me  to  make  one  of  his  table,  and  was  pleased  to  hold 
long  arguments  with  me  about  the  ancients.  I  soon  found 
put  that  my  master  was  a  great  moral  philosopher ;  and  being 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  87 

myself  in  weak  health,  sated  with  the  ordinary  pursuits  of  the 
world,  in  which  my  experience  had  forestalled  my  years,  and 
naturally  of  a  contemplative  temperament,  I  turned  my  atten- 
tion to  the  moral  studies  which  so  fascinated  my  employer.  I 
read  through  nine  shelves  full  of  metaphysicians,  and  knew  ex- 
actly the  points  in  which  those  illustrious  thinkers  quarrelled  with 
each  other,  to  the  great  advance  of  the  science.  My  master 
and  I  used  to  hold  many  a  long  discussion  about  the  nature  of 
good  and  evil ;  and  as  by  help  of  his  benevolent  forehead,  and  a 
clear  dogged  voice,  he  always  seemed  to  our  audience  to  be  the 
wiser  and  better  man  of  the  two,  he  was  very  well  pleased  with 
our  disputes.  This  gentleman  had  an  only  daughter,  an  awful 
shrew  with  a  face  like  a  hatchet:  but  philosophers  overcome 
personal  defects ;  and  thinking  only  of  the  good  her  wealth 
might  enable  me  to  do  to  my  fellow-creatures,  I  secretly  made 
love  to  her.  You  will  say,  that  was  playing  my  master  but  a 
scurvy  trick  in  return  for  his  kindness:  not  at  all.  My  master 
himself  had  convinced  me  that  there  was  no  such  virtue  as  grat- 
itude. It  was  an  error  of  vulgar  moralists.  I  yielded  to  his 
arguments,  and  at  length  privately  espoused  his  daughter.  The 
day  after  this  took  place  he  summoned  me  to  his  study.  'So, 
Augustus,'  said  he  very  mildly,  'you  have  married  my  daugh- 
ter: nay,  never  look  confused ;  I  saw  a  long  time  ago  that  you 
were  resolved  to  do  so,  and  I  was  very  glad  of  it.' 

"I  attempted  to  falter  out  something  like  thanks.  'Never 
interrupt  me!'  said  he.  'I  had  two  reasons  for  being  glad: 
Firstly,  because  my  daughter  was  the  plague  of  my  life,  and  I 
wanted  some  one  to  take  her  off  my  hands ;  secondly,  because 
I  required  your  assistance  on  a  particular  point,  and  I  could 
not  venture  to  ask  it  of  any  one  but  my  son-in-law.  In  fine, 
I  wish  to  take  you  into  partnership!" 

'  'Partnership!'  cried  I,  falling  on  my  knees.  'Noble,  gen- 
erous man!' 

'  'Stay  a  bit,'  continued  my  father-in-law.  'What  funds  do 
you  think  requisite  for  carrying  on  a  bank?  You  look  puzzled ! 
Not  a  shilling!  You  will  put  in  just  as  much  as  I  do.  You 
will  put  in  rather  more:  for  you  once  put  in  five  hundred 
pounds,  which  has  been  spent  long  ago.  /  don't  put  in  a  shill- 
ing of  my  own.  I  live  on  my  clients,  and  I  very  willingly  offer 
you  half  of  them!" 

"Imagine,  dear  Paul,  my  astonishment,  my  dismay!  I  saw 
myself  married  to  a  hideous  shrew,  son-in-law  to  a  penniless 
scoundrel,  and  cheated  out  of  my  whole  fortune!  Compare 
this  view  of  the  question  with  that  which  had  blazed  on  me 


88  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

when  I  contemplated  being  son-in-law  to  the  rich  Mr.  Asgrave, 
I  stormed  at  first.  Mr.  Asgrave  took  up  Bacon  On  the  Ad- 
vancement of  Learning,  and  made  no  reply  till  I  was  cooled  by 
explosion.  You  will  perceive  that,  when  passion  subsided,  1 
necessarily  saw  that  nothing  was  left  for  me  but  adopting  my 
father-in-law's  proposal.  Thus,  by  the  fatality  which  attended 
me,  at  the  very  time  I  meant  to  reform,  I  was  forced  into 
scoundrelism,  and  I  was  driven  into  defrauding  a  vast  number 
of  persons  by  the  accident  of  being  son-in-law  to  a  great  mor- 
alist. As  Mr.  Asgrave  was  an  indolent  man,  who  passed  his 
mornings  in  speculations  on  virtue,  I  was  made  the  active  part- 
ner. I  spent  the  day  at  the  counting-house ;  and  when  I  came 
home  for  recreation  my  wife  scratched  my  eyes  out." 

"But  were  you  never  recognized  as  'the  stranger,'  or  'the 
adventurer,'  in  your  new  capacity?" 

"No;  for,  of  course,  I  assumed,  in  all  my  changes,  both 
aliases  and  disguises.  And,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my  marriage 
so  altered  me  that,  what  with  a  snuff-colored  coat  and  a  brown 
scratch  wig,  with  a  pen  in  my  right  ear,  I  looked  the  very  pic- 
ture of  staid  respectability.  My  face  grew  an  inch  longer  every 
day.  Nothing  is  so  respectable  as  a  long  face!  and  a  subdued 
expression  of  countenance  is  the  surest  sign  of  commercial 
prosperity.  Well,  we  went  on  splendidly  enough  for  about  a 
year.  Meanwhile  I  was  wonderfully  improved  in  philosophy. 
You  have  no  idea  how  a  scolding  wife  sublimes  and  rarefies 
one's  intellect.  Thunder  clears  the  air,  you  know !  At  length, 
unhappily  for  my  fame  (for  I  contemplated  a  magnificent  moral 
history  of  man,  which,  had  she  lived  a  year  longer,  I  should 
have  completed),  my  wife  died  in  child-bed.  My  father-in- 
law  and  I  were  talking  over  the  event,  and  finding  fault  with 
civilization,  by  the  enervating  habits  by  which  women  die  of 
their  children,  instead  of  bringing  them  forth  without  being 
even  conscious  of  the  circumstance,  when  a  bit  of  paper,  sealed 
awry,  was  given  to  my  partner:  he  looked  over  it,  finished  the 
discussion,  and  then  told  me  our  bank  had  stopped  payment. 
'Now,  Augustus,'  said  he,  lighting  his  pipe  with  the  bit  of 
paper,  'you  see  the  good  of  having  nothing  to  lose!' 

"We  did  not  pay  quite  sixpence  in  the  pound;  but  my  part- 
ner was  thought  so  unfortunate  that  the  British  public  raised  a 
subscription  for  him,  and  he  retired  on  an  annuity,  greatly  re- 
spected and  very  much  compassionated.  As  I  had  not  been  so 
well  known  as  a  moralist,  and  had  not  the  prepossessing  advan- 
tage of  a  bald  benevolent  head,  nothing  was  done  for  me,  and 
I  was  turned  once  more  on  the  wide  world  to  moralize  on  the 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  89 

vicissitudes  of  fortune.  My  cousin  the  bookseller  was  no  more, 
and  his  son  cut  me.  I  took  a  garret  in  Warwick  Court,  and 
with  a  few  books,  my  only  consolation,  I  endeavored  to  nerve 
my  mind  to  the  future.  It  was  at  this  time,  Paul,  that  my  stud- 
ies really  availed  me.  I  meditated  much,  and  I  became  a  true 
philosopher,  viz.  a  practical  one.  My  actions  were  henceforth 
regulated  by  principle ;  and,  at  some  time  or  other,  I  will  con- 
vince you  that  the  road  of  true  morals  never  avoids  the  pockets 
of  your  neighbor.  So  soon  as  my  mind  had  made  the  grand 
discovery  which  Mr.  Asgrave  had  made  before  me,  that  one 
should  live  according  to  a  system, — for  if  you  do  wrong,  it  is 
then  your  system  that  errs,  not  you, — I  took  to  the  road,  with- 
out any  of  those  stings  of  conscience  which  had  hitherto  an- 
noyed me  in  such  adventures.  I  formed  one  of  a  capital  knot 
of  'Free  Agents,'  whom  I  will  introduce  to  you  some  day  or 
other,  and  I  soon  rose  to  distinction  among  them.  But,  about 
six  weeks  ago,  not  less  than  formerly  preferring  byways  to 
highways,  I  attempted  to  possess  myself  of  a  carriage,  and 
sell  it  at  discount.  I  was  acquitted  on  the  felony ;  but  sent 
hither  by  Justice  Burnflat  on  the  misdemeanor.  Thus  far, 
my  young  friend,  hath  as  yet  proceeded  the  life  of  Augustus 
Tomlinson." 

The  history  of  this  gentleman  made  a  deep  impression  on 
Paul.  The  impression  was  strengthened  by  the  conversations 
subsequently  holden  with  Augustus.  That  worthy  was  a  dan- 
gerous and  subtle  persuader.  He  had  really  read  a  good  deal 
of  history,  and  something  of  morals ;  and  he  had  an  ingenious 
way  of  defending  his  rascally  practices  by  syllogisms  from  the 
latter,  and  examples  from  the  former.  These  theories  he 
clenched,  as  it  were,  by  a  reference  to  the  existing  politics  of 
the  day.  Cheaters  of  the  public,  on  false  pretences,  he 
was  pleased  to  term  "moderate  Whigs" ;  bullying  demanders  of 
your  purse  were  "high  Tories" ;  and  thieving  in  gangs  was 
"  the  effect  of  the  spirit  of  party."  There  was  this  difference 
between  Augustus  Tomlinson  and  Long  Ned:  Ned  was  the 
acting  knave ;  Augustus  the  reasoning  one ;  and  we  may  see, 
therefore,  by  a  little  reflection,  that  Tomlinson  was  a  far  more 
perilous  companion  than  Pepper,  for  showy  theories  are  always 
more  seductive  to  the  young  and  clever  than  suasive  examples, 
and  the  vanity  of  the  youthful  makes  them  better  pleased  by 
being  convinced  of  a  thing,  than  by  being  enticed  to  it. 

A  day  or  two  after  the  narrative  of  Mr.  Tomlinson,  Paul  was 
again  visited  by  Mrs.  Lobkins ;  for  the  regulations  against  fre- 
quent visitors  were  not  then  so  strictly  enforced  as  we  under- 


90  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

stand  them  to  be  now ;  and  the  good  dame  came  to  deplore  the 
ill  success  of  her  interview  with  Justice  Burnflat. 

We  spare  the  tender-hearted  reader  a  detail  of  the  affecting 
interview  that  ensued.  Indeed,  it  was  but  a  repetition  of  the 
one  we  have  before  narrated.  We  shall  only  say,  as  a  proof  of 
Paul's  tenderness  of  heart,  that  when  he  took  leave  of  the  good 
matron,  and  bade  "God  bless  her,"  his  voice  faltered,  and  the 
tears  stood  in  his  eyes — just  as  they  were  wont  to  do  in  the  eyes 
of  George  the  Third  when  that  excellent  monarch  was  pleased 
graciously  to  encore  "God  save  the  King!" 

"I'll  be  hanged,"  soliloquized  our  hero,  as  he  slowly  bent 
his  course  towards  the  subtle  Augustus,  "I'll  be  hanged 
(humph !  the  denunciation  is  prophetic),  if  I  don't  feel  as  grate- 
ful to  the  old  lady  for  her  care  of  me  as  if  she  had  never  ill- 
used  me.  As  for  my  parents,  I  believe  I  have  little  to  be  grate- 
ful for,  or  proud  of,  in  that  quarter.  My  poor  mother,  by  all 
accounts,  seems  scarcely  to  have  had  even  the  brute  virtue  of 
maternal  tenderness ;  and  in  all  human  likelihood  I  shall  never 
know  whether  I  had  one  father  or  fifty.  But  what  matters  it? 
I  rather  like  the  better  to  be  independent ;  and,  after  all,  what 
do  nine-tenths  of  us  ever  get  from  our  parents  but  an  ugly  name, 
and  advice  which,  if  we  follow,  we  are  wretched ;  and  if  we 
neglect,  we  are  disinherited?" 

Comforting  himself  with  these  thoughts,  which  perhaps  took 
their  philosophical  complexion  from  the  conversations  he  had 
lately  held  with  Augustus,  and  which  broke  off  into  the  mut- 
tered air  of 

"  Why  should  we  quarrel  for  riches  ?" 
Paul  repaired  to  his  customary  avocations. 

In  the  third  week  of  our  hero's  captivity,  Tomlinson  com- 
municated to  him  a  plan  of  escape  that  had  occurred  to  his  sa- 
gacious brain.  In  the  yard  appropriated  to  the  amusement  of 
the  gentlemen  "misdemeaning,"  there  was  a  water-pipe  that, 
skirting  the  wall,  passed  over  a  door,  through  which,  every 
morning,  the  pious  captives  passed,  in  their  way  to  the  chapel. 
By  this  Tomlinson  proposed  to  escape ;  for  to  the  pipe  which 
reached  from  the  door  to  the  wall,  in  a  slanting  and  easy  direc- 
tion, there  was  a  sort  of  skirting-board ;  and  a  dexterous  and 
nimble  man  might  readily,  by  the  help  of  this  board,  convey 
himself  along  the  pipe,  until  the  progress  of  that  useful  con- 
ductor (which  was  happily  very  brief)  was  stopped  by  the  sum- 
mit of  the  wall,  where  it  found  a  sequel  in  another  pipe,  that 
descended  to  the  ground  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  wall.  Now, 
on  this  opposite  side  was  the  garden  of  the  prison ;  in  this  gar« 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  9! 

den  was  a  watchman ;  and  this  watchman  was  the  hobgoblin  of 
Tomlinson's  scheme:  "For,  suppose  us  safe  in  the  garden," 
said  he  "what  shall  we  do  with  this  confounded  fellow?" 

"But  that  is  not  all,"  added  Paul;  "for  even  were  there  no 
watchman,  there  is  a  terrible  wall,  which  I  noted  especially  last 
week,  when  we  were  set  to  work  in  the  garden,  and  which  has 
no  pipe,  save  a  perpendicular  one,  that  a  man  must  have  the 
legs  of  a  fly  to  be  able  to  climb!" 

"Nonsense!"  returned  Tomlinson :  "I  will  show  you  how  to 
climb  the  stubbornest  wall  in  Christendom,  if  one  has  but  the 
coast  clear :  it  is  the  watchman — the  watchman,  we  must — 

"What?"  asked  Paul,  observing  his  comrade  did  not  con- 
clude the  sentence. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  sage  Augustus  replied ;  he  then 
said,  in  a  musing  tone: 

"I  have  been  thinking,  Paul,  whether  it  would  be  consistent 
with  virtue,  and  that  strict  code  of  morals  by  which  all  my 
actions  are  regulated,  to — slay  the  watchman!" 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  Paul,  horror-stricken. 

"And  I  have  decided,"  continued  Augustus  solemnly,  with 
out  regard  to  the  exclamation,  "that  the  action  would  be  per- 
fectly justifiable!" 

"Villain!"  exclaimed  Paul,  recoiling  to  the  other  end  of  the 
stone  box — (for  it  was  night) — in  which  they  were  cooped. 

"But,"  pursued  Augustus,  who  seemed  soliloquizing,  and 
whose  voice,  sounding  calm  and  thoughtful,  like  Young's  in  the 
fimous  monologue  in  Hamlet,  denoted  that  he  heeded  not  the 
imcourteous  interruption;  "but  opinion  does  not  always  influ- 
ence conduct;  and  although  it  may  be  virtuous  to  murder  the 
watchman,  I  have  not  the  heart  to  do  it.  I  trust  in  my  future 
history  I  shall  not,  by  discerning  moralists,  be  too  severely  cen- 
sured for  a  weakness  for  which  my  physical  temperament  is 
alone  to  blame!" 

Despite  the  turn  of  the  soliloquy,  it  was  a  long  time  before 
Paul  could  be  reconciled  to  further  conversation  with  Augus- 
tus; and  it  was  only  from  the  belief  that  the  moralist  had 
leaned  to  the  jesting  vein  that  he  at  length  resumed  the  con- 
sultation. 

The  conspirators  did  not,  however,  bring  their  scheme  that 
night  to  any  ultimate  decision.  The  next  day,  Augustus,  Paul, 
and  some  others  of  the  company,  were  set  to  work  in  the  gar- 
den ;  and  Paul  then  observed  that  his  friend,  wheeling  a  barrow 
close  by  the  spot  where  the  watchman  stood,  overturned  its 
contents.  The  watchman  was  good-natured  enough  to  assist 


92  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

him  in  refilling  the  barrow;  and  Tomlinson  profited  so  well  by 
the  occasion,  that,  that  night,  he  informed  Paul  that  they  would 
have  nothing  to  dread  from  the  watchman's  vigilance.  "He 
has  promised,"  said  Augustus,  "for  certain  con-si-de-ra-ti- 
ons,  to  allow  me  to  knock  him  down :  he  has  also  promised  to 
be  so  much  hurt  as  not  to  be  able  to  move  until  we  are  over  the 
wall.  Our  main  difficulty  now,  then,  is,  the  first  step, — 
namely,  to  climb  the  pipe  unperceived ! " 

"As  to  that,"  said  Paul,  who  developed,  through  the  whole 
of  the  scheme,  organs  of  sagacity,  boldness,  and  invention, 
which  charmed  his  friend,  and  certainly  promised  well  for  his 
future  career;  "as  to  that,  I  think  we  may  manage  the  first 
ascent  with  less  danger  then  you  imagine;  the  mornings  of 
late,  have  been  very  foggy ;  they  are  almost  dark  at  the  hour 
we  go  to  the  chapel.  Let  you  and  I  close  the  file :  the  pipe 
passes  just  above  the  door;  our  hands,  as  we  have  tried,  can 
reach  it ;  and  a  spring  of  no  great  agility  will  enable  us  to  raise 
ourselves  up  to  a  footing  on  the  pipe  and  the  skirting-board. 
The  climbing,  then,  is  easy ;  and,  what  with  the  dense  fog,  and 
our  own  quickness,  I  think  we  shall  have  little  difficulty  in 
gaining  the  garden.  The  only  precautions  we  need  use  are,  to 
wait  for  a  very  dark  morning,  and  to  be  sure  that  we  are  the 
last  of  the  file,  so  that  no  one  behind  may  give  the  alarm — " 

"Or  attempt  to  follow  our  example,  and  spoil  the  pie  by  a 
superfluous  plum!"  added  Augustus.  "You  counsel  admir- 
ably ;  and  one  of  these  days,  if  you  are  not  hung  in  the  mean 
while,  will,  I  venture  to  augur,  be  a  great  logician." 

The  next  morning  was  clear  and  frosty ;  but  the  day  after 
was,  to  use  Tomlinson's  simile,  "as  dark  as  if  all  the  negroes 
of  Africa  had  been  stewed  down  into  air."  "You  might  have 
cut  the  fog  with  a  knife,"  as  the  proverb  says.  Paul  and 
Augustus  could  not  even  see  how  significantly  each  looked  at 
the  other 

It  was  a  remarkable  trait  of  the  daring  temperament  of  the 
former,  that,  young  as  he  was,  it  was  fixed  that  he  should  lead 
the  attempt.  At  the  hour,  then,  for  chapel,  the  prisoners 
passed  through  the  door.  When  it  came  to  Paul's  turn,  he 
drew  himself  by  his  hands  to  the  pipe,  and  then  creeping  along 
its  sinuous  course,  gained  the  wall  before  he  had  even  fetched 
his  breath.  Rather  more  clumsily  Augustus  followed  his 
friend's  example:  once  his  foot  slipped,  and  he  was  all  but 
over.  He  extended  his  hands  involuntarily,  and  caught  Paul 
by  the  leg;  Happily  our  hero  had  then  gained  the  wall,  to 
which  he  was  clinging,  and  for  once  in  a  way,  one  rogue  raised 


PAUL  CLIFFORD.  93 

himself  without  throwing  over  another.  Behold  Tomlinson  and 
Paul  now  seated  for  an  instant  on  the  wall  to  recover  breath ! 
the  latter  then, — the  descent  to  the  ground  was  not  very  great, 
— letting  his  body  down  by  his  hands,  dropped  into  the 
garden. 

"Hurt?"  asked  the  prudent  Augustus  in  a  hoarse  whisper 
before  he  descended  from  his  "bad  eminence,"  being  even 
willing 

"  To  bear  those  ills  he  had, 
Than  fly  to  others  that  he  knew  not  of." 

without  taking  every  previous  precaution  in  his  power. 

"No!  '  was  the  answer  in  the  same  voice,  and  Augustus 
dropped. 

So  soon  as  this  latter  worthy  had  recovered  the  shock  of  his 
fall,  he  lost  not  a  moment  in  running  to  the  other  end  of  the 
garden:  Paul  followed.  By  the  way  Tomlinson  stopped  at  a 
heap  of  rubbish,  and  picked  up  an  immense  stone ;  when  they 
came  to  the  part  of  the  wall  they  had  agreed  to  scale,  they 
found  the  watchman,  about  whom  they  needed  not,  by  the  by, 
to  have  concerned  themselves ;  for  had  it  not  been  arranged 
that  he  was  to  have  met  them,  the  deep  fog  would  have  effect- 
ually prevented  him  from  seeing  them :  this  faithful  guardian 
Augustus  knocked  down,  not  with  the  stone,  but  with  ten  guin- 
eas ;  he  then  drew  forth  from  his  dress  a  thickish  cord  which 
he  had  procured,  some  days  before,  from  the  turnkey,  and  fas- 
tening the  stone  firmly  to  one  end,  threw  that  end  over  the 
wall.  Now  the  wall  had  (as  walls  of  great  strength  mostly 
have)  an  overhanging  sort  ol  battlement  on  either  side,  and  the 
stone,  when  flung  over  and  drawn  to  the  tether  of  the  cord  to 
which  it  was  attached,  necessarily  hitched  against  this  projec- 
tion ;  and  thus  the  cord  was,  as  it  were,  fastened  to  the  wall,  and 
Tomlinson  was  enabled  by  it  to  draw  himself  up  to  the  top  of  the 
barrier.  He  performed  this  feat  with  gymnastic  address,  like 
one  who  had  often  practised  it ;  albeit,  the  discreet  adven- 
turer had  not  mentioned  in  his  narrative  to  Paul  any  previous 
occasion  for  the  practice.  As  soon  as  he  had  gained  the  top  of 
the  wall  he  threw  down  the  cord  to  his  companion,  and  in  con- 
sideration of  Paul's  inexperience  in  that  manner  of  climbing, 
gave  the  fastening  to  the  rope  an  additional  security  by  holding 
it  himself.  With  slowness  and  labor  Paul  hoisted  himself  up; 
and  then,  by  transferring  the  stone  to  the  other  side  of  the  wall, 
where  it  made,  of  course,  a  similar  hitch,  our  two  adventurers 
were  enabled  successively  to  slide  down,  and  consummate  their 
escape  from  the  house  of  correction. 


94  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

"Follow  me  now!"  said  Augustus,  as  he  took  to  his  heels; 
and  Paul  pursued  him  through  a  labyrinth  of  alleys  and  lanes, 
through  which  he  shot  and  dodged  with  a  variable  and  shifting 
celerity  that,  had  not  Paul  kept  close  upon  him,  would  very 
soon  (combined  with  the  fog)  have  snatched  him  from  the  eyes 
of  his  young  ally.  Happily  the  immaturity  of  the  morning,  the 
obscurity  of  the  streets  passed  through,  and,  above  all,  the 
extreme  darkness  of  the  atmosphere,  prevented  that  detection 
and  arrest  which  their  prisoner's  garb  would  otherwise  have 
insured  them.  At  length  they  found  themselves  in  the  fields ; 
and,  skulking  along  hedges,  and  diligently  avoiding  the  high 
road,  they  continued  to  fly  onward,  until  they  had  advanced 
several  miles  into  "the  bowels  of  the  land."  At  that  time  "the 
bowels"  of  Augustus  Tomlinson  began  to  remind  him  of  their 
demands;  and  he  accordingly  suggested  the  desirability  of  their 
seizing  the  first  peasant  they  encountered,  and  causing  him  to 
exchange  clothes  with  one  of  the  fugitives,  who  would  thus  be 
enabled  to  enter  a  public-house  and  provide  for  their  mutual 
necessities.  Paul  agreed  to  this  proposition,  and,  accordingly, 
they  watched  their  opportunity  and  caught  a  ploughman. 
Augustus  stripped  him  of  his  frock,  hat,  and  worsted  stockings ; 
and  Paul,  hardened  by  necessity  and  companionship,  helped 
to  tie  the  poor  ploughman  to  a  tree.  They  then  continued  their 
progress  for  about  an  hour,  and,  as  the  shades  of  evening  fell 
around  them,  they  discovered  a  public-house.  Augustus  en- 
tered, and  returned  in  a  few  minutes  laden  with  bread  and 
cheese,  and  a  bottle  of  beer.  Prison  fare  cures  a  man  of  dain- 
tiness, and  the  two  fugitives  dined  on  these  homely  viands  with 
considerable  complacency.  They  then  resumed  their  journey, 
and  at  length,  wearied  with  exertion,  they  arrived  at  a  lonely 
haystack,  where  they  resolved  to  repose  for  an  hour  or  two. 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  95 


CHAPTER  X. 

*'  Unlike  the  ribald,  whose  licentious  jest 
Pollutes  his  banquet,  and  insults  his  guest ; 
From  wealth  and  grandeur  easy  to  descend, 
Thou  joy'st  to  lose  the  master  in  the  friend  ; 
We  round  thy  board  the  cheerful  menials  see, 
Gay  with  the  smile  of  bland  equality  ; 
No  social  care  the  gracious  lord  disdains  ; 
Love  prompts  to  love,  and  reverence  reverence  gains." 
—  Translation  of  Luc  AN  to  Pi  so,  prefixed  to  the  Twelfth  Paper  of    '  The 
Rambler." 

COYLY  shone  down  the  bashful  stars  upon  our  adventurers, 
as,  after  a  short  nap  behind  the  haystack,  they  stretched  them- 
selves, and,  looking  at  each  other,  burst  into  an  involuntary  and 
hilarious  laugh  at  the  prosperous  termination  of  their  exploit. 

Hitherto  they  had  been  too  occupied,  first  by  their  flight, 
then  by  hunger,  then  by  fatigue,  for  self-gratulation ;  now  they 
rubbed  their  hands,  and  joked  like  runaway  school-boys,  at 
their  escape. 

By  degrees  their  thoughts  turned  from  the  past  to  the  future; 
and  "Tell  me,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Augustus,  "what  you  in- 
tend to  do.  I  trust  I  have  long  ago  convinced  you  that  it  is  no 
sin  'to  serve  our  friends'  and  to  'be  true  to  our  party' ;  and 
therefore,  I  suppose,  you  will  decide  upon  taking  to  the  road!" 

"It  is  very  odd,"  answered  Paul,  "that  I  should  have  any 
scruples  left  after  your  lectures  on  the  subject ;  but  I  own  to  you 
frankly,  that,  somehow  or  other,  I  have  doubts  whether  thiev- 
ing be  really  the  honestest  profession  I  could  follow." 

"Listen  to  me,  Paul,"  answered  Augustus;  and  his  reply  is 
not  unworthy  of  notice.  "All  crime  and  all  excellence  depend 
upon  a  good  choice  of  words.  I  see  you  look  puzzled ;  I  will 
explain.  If  you  take  money  from  the  public,  and  say  you  have 
robbed,  you  have  indubitably  committed  a  great  crime;  but  if 
you  do  the  same,  and  say  you  have  been  relieving  the  necessi- 
ties of  the  poor,  you  have  done  an  excellent  action:  if,  in 
afterwards  dividing  this  money  with  your  companions,  you  say 
you  have  been  sharing  booty,  you  have  committed  an  offence 
against  the  laws  of  your  country;  but  if  you  observe  that  you 
have  been  sharing  with  your  friends  the  gains  of  your  industry, 
you  have  been  performing  one  of  the  noblest  actions  of  human- 
ity. To  knock  a  man  on  the  head  is  neither  virtuous  nor 
guilty,  but  it  depends  upon  the  language  applied  to  the  action 


g6  PAUL     CLIFFORD. 

to  make  it  murder  or  glory.*  Why  not  say,  then,  that  you 
have  testified  '  the  courage  of  a  hero,'  rather  than  '  the  atrocity 
of  a  ruffian  '  ?  This  is  perfectly  clear,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  It  seems  so,"  answered  Paul. 

"  It  is  so  self-evident,  that  it  is  the  way  all  governments  are 
carried  on.  Wherefore,  my  good  Paul,  we  only  do  what  all 
other  legislators  do.  We  are  never  rogues  so  long  as  we  call 
ourselves  honest  fellows,  and  we  never  commit  a  crime  so  long 
as  we  can  term  it  a  virtue !  What  say  you  now?' ' 

Paul  smiled,  and  was  silent  a  few  moments  before  he  replied : 

"There  is  very  little  doubt  but  that  you  are  wrong;  yet  if 
you  are,  so  are  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  It  is  of  no  use  to 
be  the  only  white  sheep  of  the  flock.  Wherefore,  my  dear 
Tomlinson,  I  will  in  future  be  an  excellent  citizen,  relieve  the 
necessities  of  the  poor,  and  share  the  gains  of  my  industry  with 
my  friends." 

"Bravo!"  cried  Tomlinson.  "And  now  that  that  is  set- 
tled, the  sooner  you  are  inaugurated  the  better.  Since  the 
starlight  has  shone  forth,  I  see  that  I  am  in  a  place  I  ought  to 
be  very  well  acquainted  with ;  or,  if  you  like  to  be  suspicious, 
you  may  believe  that  I  have  brought  you  purposely  in  this 
direction:  but  first  let  me  ask  if  you  feel  any  great  desire  to 
pass  the  night  by  this  haystack,  or  whether  you  would  like  a 
song  and  the  punch-bowl  almost  as  much  as  the  open  air,  with 
the  chance  of  being  eaten  up  in  a  pinch  of  hay  by  some  stroll- 
ing cow!" 

"You  may  conceive  my  choice,"  answered  Paul. 

"Well,  then,  there  is  an  excellent  fellow  near  here  who  keeps 
a  public-house,  and  is  a  firm  and  generous  patron  of  the  lads  of 
the  cross.  At  certain  periods  they  hold  weekly  meetings  at 
his  house :  this  is  one  of  the  nights.  What  say  you?  shall  I 
introduce  you  to  the  club?" 

"I  shall  be  very  glad,  if  they  will  admit  me!"  returned  Paul, 
whom  many  and  conflicting  thoughts  rendered  laconic. 

"Oh!  no  fear  of  that,  under  my  auspices.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  though  we  are  a  tolerant  sect,  we  welcome  every  new 
proselyte  with  enthusiasm.  But  are  you  tired?" 

"A  little;  the  house  is  not  far,  you  say?" 

"About  a  mile  off,"  answered  Tomlinson.      "Lean  on  me." 

Our  wanderers,  now  leaving  the  haystack,  struck  across  part 

*  We  observe  in  a  paragraph  from  an  American  paper,  copied  without  comment  into  the 
jllorning  Chronicle,  a  singular  proof  of  the  truth  of  Tomlinson's  philosophy.  "  Mr.  Row- 
land Stephenson  (so  runs  the  extract),  the  celebrated  English  banker,  has  just  purchased  a 
considerable  tract  of  land,"  etc.  Most  philosophical  of  paragraphists  !  "  Celebrated  Eng- 
lish banker  !  "  thai  sentence  is  a  better  illustration  of  verbal  fallacies  than  all  Bentham  s 
treatises  put  together.  "Celebrated /  "  O  Mercury,  what  a  dexterous  epithet  I 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  97 

of  Finchley  Common,  for  the  abode  of  the  worthy  publican  was 
felicitously  situated,  and  the  scene  in  which  his  guests  cele- 
brated their  festivities  was  close  by  that  on  which  they  often 
performed  their  exploits. 

As  they  proceeded,  Paul  questioned  his  friend  touching  the 
name  and  character  of  "mine  host";  and  the  all-knowing 
Augustus  Tomlinson  answered  him,  Quaker-like,  by  a  ques- 
tion: 

"Have  you  never  heard  of  Gentleman  George?" 

"What!  the  noted  head  of  a  flash  public-house  in  the  coun- 
try? To  be  sure  I  have,  often;  my  poor  nurse,  Dame  Lobkins, 
used  to  say  he  was  the  best-spoken  man  of  the  trade!" 

"Ay,  so  he  is  still.  In  his  youth  George  was  a  very  hand- 
some fellow,  but  a  little  too  fond  of  his  lass  and  his  bottle  to 
please  his  father,  a  very  staid  old  gentleman,  who  walked  about 
on  Sundays  in  a  bob-wig  and  a  gold-headed  cane,  and  was  a 
much  better  farmer  on  week-days  than  he  was  head  of  a  public- 
house.  George  used  to  be  a  remarkably  smart-dressed  fellow, 
and  so  he  is  to  this  day.  He  has  a  great  deal  of  wit,  is  a  very 
good  whist-player,  has  a  capital  cellar,  and  is  so  fond  of  seeing 
his  friends  drunk  that  he  bought  some  time  ago  a  large  pewter 
measure  in  which  six  men  can  stand  upright.  The  girls,  or 
rather  the  old  women,  to  which  last  he  used  to  be  much  more 
civil  of  the  two,  always  liked  him ;  they  say  nothing  is  so  fine 
as  his  fine  speeches,  and  they  give  him  the  title  of  'Gentleman 
George.'  He  is  a  nice,  kind-hearted  man  in  many  things.  Pray 
Heaven  we  shall  have  no  cause  to  miss  him  when  he  departs. 
But,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  he  takes  more  than  his  share  of  our 
common  purse." 

"What,  is  he  avaricious?" 

"Quite  the  reverse;  but  he's  so  cursedly  fond  of  building, 
he  invests  all  his  money  (and  wants  us  to  invest  all  ours)  in 
houses;  and  there's  one  confounded  dog  of  a  bricklayer  who 
runs  him  up  terrible  bills, — a  fellow  called  'Cunning  Nat,'  who 
is  equally  adroit  in  spoiling  ground  and  improving  ground  rent. " 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

1  'Ah !  thereby  hangs  a  tale.  But  we  are  near  the  place  now ; 
you  will  see  a  curious  set." 

As  Tomlinson  said  this  the  pair  approached  a  house  standing 
alone,  and  seemingly  without  any  other  abode  in  the  vicinity. 
It  was  of  curious  and  grotesque  shape,  painted  white,  with  a 
Gothic  chimney,  a  Chinese  sign-post  (on  which  was  depicted 
a  gentleman  fishing,  with  the  words  "The  Jolly  Angler"  written 
beneath),  and  a  porch  that  would  have  been  Grecian,  if  it  had 


98  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

not  been  Dutch.  It  stood  in  a  little  field,  with  a  hedge  behind 
it,  and  the  common  in  front !  Augustus  stopped  at  the  door, 
and,  while  he  paused,  bursts  of  laughter  rang  cheerily  within. 

"Ah,  the  merry  boys!"  he  muttered:  "I  long  to  be  with 
them!"  and  then  with  his  clenched  fist  he  knocked  four  times 
on  the  door.  There  was  a  sudden  silence,  which  lasted  about  a 
minute,  and  was  broken  by  a  voice  within  asking  who  was  there. 
Tomlinson  answered  by  some  cabalistic  word ;  the  door  was 
opened,  and  a  little  boy  presented  himself. 

"Well,  my  lad,"  said  Augustus,  "and  how  is  your  master? 
Stout  and  hearty,  if  I  may  judge  by  his  voice." 

"Ay,  Master  Tommy,  ay,  he's  boosing  away  at  a  fine  rate  in 
the  back-parlor,  with  Mr.  Pepper  and  fighting  Attie,  and  half- 
a-score  more  of  them.  He'll  be  woundy  glad  to  see  you,  I'll 
be  bound." 

"Show  this  gentleman  into  the  bar,"  rejoined  Augustus, 
"while  I  go  and  pay  my  respects  to  honest  Geordie!" 

The  boy  made  a  sort  of  a  bow,  and  leading  our  hero  into  the 
bar,  consigned  him  to  the  care  of  Sal,  a  buxom  barmaid,  who 
reflected  credit  on  the  taste  of  the  landlord,  and  who  received 
Paul  with  marked  distinction  and  a  gill  of  brandy. 

Paul  had  not  long  to  play  the  amiable  before  Tomlinson  re- 
joined him  with  the  information  that  Gentleman  George  would 
be  most  happy  to  see  him  in  the  back  parlor,  and  that  he  would 
there  find  an  old  friend  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Pepper. 

"What!  is  he  here?"  cried  Paul.  "The  sorry  knave!  to  let 
me  be  caged  in  his  stead!" 

"Gently,  gently,  no  misapplication  of  terms,"  said  Augustus; 
"that  was  not  knavery,  that  was  prudence,  the  greatest  of  all 
virtues  and  the  rarest.  But  come  along,  and  Pepper  shall 
explain  to-morrow." 

Threading  a  gallery  or  passage,  Augustus  preceded  our 
hero,  opened  a  door,  and  introduced  him  into  a  long,  low  apart- 
ment, where  sat  round  a  table  spread  with  pipes  and  liquor, 
some  ten  or  a  dozen  men,  while  at  the  top  of  the  table,  in  an 
arm-chair,  presided  Gentleman  George.  That  dignitary  was  a 
portly  and  comely  gentleman,  with  a  knowing  look,  and  a 
Welsh  wig,  worn,  as  the  Morning  Chronicle  says  of  his  Majes- 
ty's hat,  "in  a  degage" manner  on  one  side."  Being  afflicted 
with  the  gout,  his  left  foot  reclined  on  a  stool ;  and  the  attitude 
developed,  despite  of  a  lamb's-wool  stocking,  the  remains  of 
an  exceedingly  good  leg. 

As  Gentleman  George  was  a  person  of  majestic  dignity 
among  the  E.mernts  of  the  Cross,  we  trust  we  shall  not  be 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  99 

thought  irreverent  in  applying  a  few  of  the  words  by  which  the 
foresaid  Morning  Chronicle  depicted  his  Majesty,  on  the  day 
he  laid  the  first  stone  of  his  father's  monument,  to  the  descrip- 
tion of  Gentleman  George. 

"He  had  on  a  handsome  blue  coat,  and  a  white  waistcoat'; 
moreover,  "he  laughed  most  good-humoredly,"  as,  turning  to 
Augustus  Tomlinson,  he  saluted  him  with: 

"So,  this  is  the  youngster  you  present  to  us?  Welcome 
to  the  Jolly  Angler!  Give  us  thy  hand,  young  sir;  I  shall  be 
happy  to  blow  a  cloud  with  thee. "' 

"With  all  due  submission,"  said  Mr.  Tomlinson,  "I  think  it 
may  first  be  as  well  to  introduce  my  pupil  and  friend  to  his 
future  companions." 

"You  speak  like  a  leary  cove,"  cried  Gentleman  George, 
still  squeezing  our  hero's  hand ;  and,  turning  round  in  his 
elbow-chair,  he  pointed  to  each  member,  as  he  severally  intro- 
duced his  guests  to  Paul  : 

"Here,"  said  he, — "here's  a  fine  chap  at  my  right  hand — 
(the  person  thus  designated  was  a  thin  military-looking  figure, 
in  a  shabby  riding  frock,  and  with  a  commanding,  bold,  aquiline 
countenance,  a  little  the  worse  for  wear) — here's  a  fine  chap 
for  you  ;  Fighting  Attie  we  calls  him :  he's  a  devil  on  the  road. 
'Halt — deliver — must  and  shall — can't  and  shan't — do  as  I  bid 
you,  or  go  to  the  devil,' — that's  all  Fighting  Attic's  palaver; 
and,  'sdeath,  it  has  a  wonderful  way  of  coming  to  the  point! 
a  famous  cull  is  my  friend  Attie — -an  old  soldier — has  seen  the 
world,  and  knows  what  is  what;  has  lots  of  gumption  and  devil 
a  bit  of  blarney.  Howsomever,  the  highflyers  doesn't  like  him  ; 
and  when  he  takes  people's  money,  he  need  not  be  quite  so 
cross  about  it!  Attie,  let  me  introduce  a  new  pal  to  you." 
Paul  made  his  bow. 

"Stand  at  ease,  man!"  quoth  the  veteran,  without  taking 
the  pipe  from  his  mouth. 

Gentleman  George  then  continued ;  and,  after  pointing  out 
four  or  five  of  the  company  (among  whom  our  hero  discovered, 
to  his  surprise,  his  old  friends,  Mr.  Eustace  Fitzherbert  and 
Mr.  William  Howard  Russell),  came,  at  length,  to  one  with  a 
very  red  face,  and  a  lusty  frame  of  body.  "That  gentleman," 
said  he,  "is  Scarlet  Jem ;  a  dangerous  fellow  for  aflress,  though 
he  says  he  likes  robbing  alone  now,  for  a  general  press  is  not 
half  such  a  good  thing  as  it  used  to  be  formerly.  You  have 
no  idea  what  a  hand  at  disguising  himself  Scarlet  Jem  is.  He 
has  an  old  wig  which  he  generally  does  business  in ;  and  you 
would  not  go  for  to  know  him  again,  when  he  conceals  himself 


100  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

under  the  wig.  Oh,  he  s  a  precious  rogue,  is  Scarlet  Jem! 
As  for  the  cove  on  t'other  side,"  continued  the  host  of  the 
Jolly  Angler,  pointing  to  Long  Ned,  "all  I  can  say  of  him, 
good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  is,  that  he  has  an  unkimmon  fine 
head  of  hair :  and  now,  youngster,  as  you  knows  him,  spose 
you  goes  and  sits  by  him,  and  he'll  introduce  you  to  the  rest ; 
for,  split  my  wig!  (Gentleman  George  was  a  bit  of  a  swearer) 
if  I  ben't  tired,  and  so  here's  to  your  health;  and  if  so  be  as 
vour  name's  Paul,  may  you  always  rob  Peter  *  in  order  to  pay 
Pauft " 

This  witticism  of  mine  host's  being  exceedingly  well  re- 
ceived, Paul  went,  amidst  the  general  laughter,  to  take  posses- 
sion of  the  vacant  seat  beside  Long  Ned.  That  tall  gentle- 
man, who  had  hitherto  been  cloud-compelling  (as  Homer  calls 
Jupiter)  in  profound  silence,  now  turned  to  Paul  with  the 
warmest  cordiality,  declared  himself  overjoyed  to  meet  his  old 
friend  once  more,  and  congratulated  him  alike  on  his  escape  from 
Bridewell,  and  his  admission  to  the  councils  of  Gentleman 
George.  But  Paul,  mindful  of  that  exertion  of  "prudence"  on 
the  part  of  Mr.  Pepper,  by  which  he  had  been  left  to  his  fate 
and  the  mercy  of  Justice  Burnflat,  received  his  advances  very 
sullenly.  This  coolness  so  incensed  Ned,  who  was  naturally 
choleric,  that  he  turned  his  back  on  our  hero,  and  being  of  an 
aristocratic  spirit,  muttered  something  about  "upstart,  and  vul- 
gar clyfakers  being  admitted  to  the  company  of  swell  tobymen." 
This  murmur  called  all  Paul's  blood  into  his  cheek;  for 
though  he  had  been  punished  as  a  clyfaker  (or  pickpocket), 
nobody  knew  better  than  Long  Ned  whether  or  not  he  was  in- 
nocent ;  and  a  reproach  from  him  came  therefore  with  double 
injustice  and  severity.  In  his  wrath,  he  seized  Mr.  Pepper  by 
the  ear,  and,  telling  him  he  was  a  shabby  scoundrel,  challenged 
him  to  fight. 

So  pleasing  an  invitation  not  being  announced  solto  voce, 
but  in  a  tone  suited  to  the  importance  of  the  proposition,  every 
one  around  heard  it ;  and  before  Long  Ned  could  answer,  the 
full  voice  of  Gentleman  George  thundered  forth: 

"Keep  the  peace  there,  you  youngster !  What!  are  you  just 
admitted  into  our  merry-makings,  and  must  you  be  wrangling 
already?  Hark  ye,  gemmen,  I  have  been  plagued  enough 
with  your  quarrels  before  now,  and  the  first  cove  as  breaks  the 
present  quiet  of  the  Jolly  Angler,  shall  be  turned  out  neck  and 
crop— shan't  he,  Attie?" 

"Right  about,  march,"  said  the  hero. 

*  Peter :  a  portmanteau. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  IOI 

"Ay,  that's  the  word,  Attie,"  said  Gentleman  George. 
"And  now,  Mr.  Pepper,  if  there  be  any  ill  blood  'twixt  you 
and  the  lad  there,  wash  it  away  in  a  bumper  of  bingo,  and  let's 
hear  no  more  whatsomever  about  it." 

"I'm  willing,"  cried  Long  Ned,  with  the  deferential  air  of  a 
courtier,  and  holding  out  his  hand  to  Paul.  Our  hero,  being 
somewhat  abashed  by  the  novelty  of  his  situation  and  the  re- 
buke of  Gentleman  George,  accepted,  though  with  some  reluc- 
tance, the  proffered  courtesy. 

Order  being  thus  restored,  the  conversation  of  the  convivia- 
lists  began  to  assume  a  most  fascinating  bias.  They  talked 
with  infinite  gout  of  the  sums  they  had  levied  on  the  public, 
and  the  peculations  they  had  committed  for  what  one  called 
the  "good  of  the  community"  and  another  the  "  established 
order," — meaning  themselves.  It  was  easy  to  see  in  what 
school  the  discerning  Augustus  Tomlinson  had  learned  the 
value  of  words. 

There  was  something  edifying  in  hearing  the  rascals !  So 
nice  was  their  language,  and  so  honest  their  enthusiasm  for 
their  own  interests,  you  might  have  imagined  you  were  listening 
to  a  coterie  of  cabinet  ministers  conferring  on  taxes,  or  debat- 
ing on  perquisites. 

"Long  may  the  Commons  flourish!"  cried  punning  Georgie, 
filling  his  glass;  "it  is  by  the  commons  we're  fed,  and  may 
they  never  know  cultiwation  ! " 

"Three  times  three!"  shouted  Long  Ned:  and  the  toast 
was  drunk  as  Mr.  Pepper  proposed. 

"A  little  moderate  cultivation  of  the  commons,  to  speak 
frankly,"  said  Augustus  Tomlinson  modestly,  "might  not  be 
amiss;  for  it  would  decoy  people  into  the  belief  that  they 
might  travel  safely ;  and,  after  all,  a  hedge  or  a  barley-field  is 
as  good  for  us  as  a  barren  heath,  where  we  have  no  shelter  if 
once  pursued!" 

"You  talks  nonsense,  you  spooney!"  cried  a  robber  of  note, 
called  Bagshot;  who,  being  aged,  and  having  been  a  lawyer's 
footboy,  was  sometimes  denominated  "Old  Bags."  "You 
talks  nonsense;  these  innowating  ploughs  are  the  ruin  of 
us.  Every  blade  of  corn  in  a  common  is  an  encroachment  on 
the  constitution  and  rights  of  the  gemmen  highwaymen.  I'm 
old,  and  mayn't  live  to  see  these  things;  but,  mark  my  words, 
a  time  will  come  when  a  man  may  go  from  Lunnun  to 
Johnny  Groat's  without  losing  a  penny  by  one  of  us;  when 
Hounslow  will  be  safe,  and  Finchley  secure.  My  eyes,  what  a 
sad  thing  for  us  that'll  be!" 


102  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

The  venerable  old  man  became  suddenly  silent,  and  the 
tears  started  to  his  eyes.  Gentleman  George  had  a  great  hor- 
ror of  blue  devils,  and  particularly  disliked  all  disagreeable 
subjects. 

"Thunder  and  oons,  Old  Bags!"  quoth  mine  host  of  the 
Jolly  Angler,  "this  will  never  do;  we're  all  met  here  to  be 
merry,  and  not  to  listen  to  your  mullancolly  taratarantarums. 
I  says,  Ned  Pepper,  spose  you  tips  us  a  song,  and  I'll  beat 
time  with  my  knuckles." 

Long  Ned,  taking  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  attempted,  like 
Walter  Scott's  Lady  Heron,  one  or  two  pretty  excuses:  these 
being  drowned  by  an  universal  shout,  the  handsome  purloinei 
gave  the  following  song,  to  the  tune  of  "Time  has  not  thinned 
my  flowing  hair." 

LONG  NED'S  SONG. 

i. 

Oh,  if  my  hands  adhere  to  cash, 

My  gloves  at  least  are  clean, 

And  rarely  have  the  gentry  flash 

In  sprucer  clothes  been  seen. 

II. 
Sweet  Public,  since  your  coffers  must 

Afford  our  w«»nts  relief, 
Oh  !  soothes  it  not  to  yield  the  dust 
To  such  a  charming  thief? 

III. 
I  never  robbed  a  single  coach 

But  with  a  lover's  air  ; 

And  though  you  might  my  course  reproach, 
You  never  could  my  hair. 
IV. 

John  Bull,  who  loves  a  harmless  joke, 

Is  apt  at  me  to  grin, 
But  why  be  cross  with  laughing  folk, 

Unless  they  laugh  and  win  ? 

v. 
John  Bull  hns  money  in  his  box  ; 

And  though  his  wit's  divine, 
Yet  let  me  laugh  at  Johnny's  locks — 

And  John  may  laugh  at  mine  !  " 

'  'And  John  may  laugh  at  mine,'  excellent!"  cried  Gentle- 
man George,  lighting  his  pipe  and  winking  at  Attie,  "I  hears 
as  how  you  be  a  famous  fellow  with  the  lasses." 

Ned  smiled  and  answered:  "No  man  should  boast ;  but — " 
Pepper  paused  significantly,  and  then  glancing  at  Attie,  said: 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  10$ 

"Talking  of  lasses,  it  is  my  turn  to  knock  down  a  gentleman 
for  a  song,  and  I  knock  down  Fighting  Attie. ' ' 

"I  never  sing,"  said  the  warrior. 

"Treason,  treason,"  cried  Pepper.  "It  is  the  law,  and  you 
must  obey  the  law;  so  begin." 

"It  is  true,  Attie,"  said  Gentleman  George. 

There  was  no  appeal  from  the  honest  publican's  fiat;  so,  in 
a  quick  and  laconic  manner,  it  being  Attic's  favorite  dogma 
that  the  least  said  is  the  soonest  mended,  the  warrior  sung  as 
follows  : 

FIGHTING  ATTIE'S  SONG. 
Air — "  He  was  famed  for  deeds  of  arms." 

"  Rise  at  six — dine  at  two — 
Rob  your  man  without  ado — 
Such  my  maxims — if  you  doubt 
Their  wisdom,  to  the  right  about  ! " 

(Signing  to  a  sallow  gentleman  on  the  same  side  of  the 

table  to  send  up  the  brandy  bowl.) 
"  Pass  round  the  bingo, — of  a  gun, 
You  musky,  dusky,  husky  son  !  "  * 

(The  sallow  gentleman,  in  a  hoarse  voice,) 
"  Attie — the  bingo's  now  with  me, 
I  can't  resign  it  yet,  d'ye  see  !  " 

(Attie,  seizing  the  bowl,) 
"  Resign,  resign  it — cease  your  dust !  " 

(  Wresting  it  away,  and  fiercely  regarding  the  sallow 

gentleman?) 
"  You  have  resign'd  it — and  you  must." 

CHORUS. 
"  You  have  resign'd  it — and  you  must." 

While  the  chorus,  laughing  at  the  discomfited  tippler,  yelled 
forth  the  emphatic  words  of  the  heroic  Attie,  that  personage 
emptied  the  brandy  at  a  draught,  resumed  his  pipe,  and,  in  as 
few  words  as  possible,  called  on  Bagshot  for  a  song,.  The  ex- 
cellent old  highwayman,  with  great  diffidence,  obeyed  the  re- 
quest, cleared  his  throat,  and  struck  off  with  a  ditty  somewhat 
to  the  tune  of  "The  Old  Woman." 

*  Much  of  whatever  amusement  might  be  occasioned  by  the  not  (we  trust)  ill-natured 
travesties  of  certain  eminent  characters  in  this  part  of  our  work,  when  first  published,  like 
all  political  allusions,  loses  point  and  becomes  obscure  as  the  applications  cea.se  to  be 
familiar.  It  is  already  necessary,  perhaps,  to  say,  that  Fighting  Attie  herein  typifies  or 
illustrates  the  Duke  of  Wellington  s  abrupt  dismissal  of  Mr.  Huskisson. 


104  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

OLD  BAGS'  SONG. 

Are  the  days  then  gone,  when  on  Hounslow  Heath 

We  flash'd  our  nags  ? 
When  the  stoutest  bosoms  quail'd  beneath 

The  voice  of  Bags  ? 
Ne'er  was  my  work  half  undone,  lest 

I  should  be  nabb'd  : 
Slow  was  old  Bags,  but  he  never  ceased 

'Till  the  whole  was  grabb'd. 

CHORUS. 

'Till  the  whole  was  grabb'd. 

When  the  slow  coach  paused,  and  the  gemmen  stoim'd, 

/  bore  the  brunt — 
And  the  only  sound  which  my  grave  lips  form'd 

Was  "  blunt  " — still  ' '  blunt  !  " 
Oh,  these  jovial  days  are  ne'er  forgot ! — 

But  the  tape  lags — 
When  I  be's  dead,  you'll  drink  one  pot 

To  poor  old  Bags ! 

CHORUS. 
To  poor  old  Bags  ! 

"Ay,  that  we  will,  my  dear  Bagshot,"  cried  Gentleman 
George  affectionately ;  but,  observing  a  tear  in  the  fine  old  fel- 
low's eye,  he  added,  "Cheer  up.  What,  ho!  cheer  up! 
Times  will  improve,  and  Providence  may  yet  send  us  one  good 
year,  when  you  shall  be  as  well  off  as  ever!  You  shakes  your 
poll.  Well,  don't  be  humdurgeoned,  but  knock  down  a  gem- 
man." 

Dashing  away  the  drop  of  sensibility,  the  veteran  knocked 
down  Gentleman  George  himself. 

"Oh,  dang  it ! "  said  George,  with  an  air  of  dignity,  "I  ought 
to  skip,  since  I  finds  the  lush;  but  howsomever  here  goes:" 

GENTLEMAN  GEORGE'S  SONG. 

Air—  "Old  King  Cole." 
I  be's  the  cove — the  merry  old  cove, 

Of  whose  max  all  the  rufflers  sing. 
And  a  lushing  cove,  I  thinks,  by  Jove, 

Is  as  great  as  a  sober  king  ! 

CHORUS. 

Is  as  great  as  a  sober  king. 

Whatever  the  noise  as  is  made  by  the  boys, 

At  the  bar  as  they  lush  away  ; 
The  devil  a  noise  my  peace  alloys, 
As  long  as  the  rascals  pay  ! 

CHORUS. 
As  long  as  the  rascals  pay  J 


PAUL  CLIFFORD.  IO$ 

What  if  I  sticks  my  stones  and  my  bricks 
With  mortar  I  takes  from  the  snobbish  ? 

All  who  can  feel  for  the  public  weal, 
Likes  the  public-house  to  be  bobbish. 

CHORUS. 
Likes  the  public-house  to  be  bobbish. 

"There,  ^emmen!"  said  the  publican  stopping  short  "that's 
the  pith  of  the  matter,  and  split  my  wig  but  I'm  short  of  breath 
now.  So,  send  round  the  brandy,  Augustus :  you  sly  dog,  you 
keeps  it  all  to  yourself." 

By  this  time  the  whole  conclave  were  more  than  half-seas 
over,  or,  as  Augustus  Tomlinson  expressed  it,  "their  more  aus- 
tere qualities  were  relaxed  by  a  pleasing  and  innocent  indul- 
gence." Paul's  eyes  reeled,  and  his  tongue  ran  loose.  By  de- 
grees the  room  swam  round,  the  faces  of  his  comrades  altered, 
the  countenance  of  Old  Bags  assumed  an  awful  and  menacing 
air.  He  thought  Long  Ned  insulted  him,  and  that  Old  Bags 
took  the  part  of  the  assailant,  doubled  his  fists,  and  threatened 
to  put  the  plaintiff's  nob  into  chancery,  if  he  disturbed  the 
peace  of  the  meeting.  Various  other  imaginary  evils  beset 
him.  He  thought  he  had  robbed  a  mail-coach  in  company  with 
Pepper;  that  Tomlinson  informed  against  him,  and  that  Gen- 
tleman George  ordered  him  to  be  hanged ;  in  short,  he  labored 
under  a  temporary  delirium,  occasioned  by  a  sudden  reverse  of 
fortune — from  water  to  brandy ;  and  the  last  thing  of  which  he 
retained  any  recollection,  before  he  sunk  under  the  table,  in 
company  with  Long  Ned,  Scarlet  Jem,  and  Old  Bags,  was  the 
bearing  his  part  in  the  burthen  of  what  appeared  to  him  a 
chorus  of  last  dying  speeches  and  confessions,  but  what  in 
reality  was  a  song  made  in  honor  of  Gentleman  George,  and 
sung  by  his  grateful  guests  as  a  finale  to  the  festivities.  It  ran 
thus: 

THE  ROBBER'S  GRAND  TOAST. 

A  tumbler  of  blue  ruin,  fill,  fill  for  me  ! 

Red  tape  those  as  likes  it  may  drain, 
But  whatever  the  lush,  it  a  bumper  must  be, 

If  we  ne'er  drinks  a  bumper  again  ! 
Now — now  in  the  crib,  where  a  ruffler  may  lie, 

Without  fear  that  the  traps  should  distress  him, 
With  a  drop  in  the  mouth,  and  a  drop  in  the  eye, 

Here's  to  Gentleman  George — God  bless  him  ! 
God  bless  him — God  bless  him  ! 

Here's  to  Gentleman  George — God  bless  him  ! 

'Mong  the  pals  of  the  Prince,  I  have  heard  it's  the  go, 
Before  they  have  tippled  enough, 


106  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

To  smarten  their  punch  with  the  best  cuva^oa, 

More  conish  to  render  the  stuff  ! 
I  boast  not  such  lush  ! — but  whoever  his  glass 

Does  not  like,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  press  him  ! 
Upstanding,  my  kiddies — round,  round  let  it  pass  ! 

Here's  to  Gentleman  George — God  bless  him  ! 
God  bless  him — God  bless  him  ! 

Here's  to  Gentleman  George — God  bless  him  ! 

See — see — the  fine  fellow  grows  weak  on  the  stumps, 

Assist  him,  ye  rascals,  to  stand  ! 

Why,  ye  stir  not  a  peg  ! — Are  you  all  in  the  dumps  ?— 
Fighting  Atlie,  go,  lend  him  a  hand  ! 

(The  robbers  crowd  around  Gentleman  George,  each,  under 
pretence  of  supporting  him,  pulling  him  first  one  way  and 
then  another.) 

Come,  lean  upon  me — at  your  service  I  am  ! 

Get  away  from  his  elbow,  you  whelp  ! — him. 
You'll  only  upset — them  'ere  fellows  but  sham  !  . 

Here's  to  Gentleman  George — God  help  him  ! 
God  help  him — God  help  him  ! — 

Here's  to  Gentleman  George — God  help  him  J" 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  I  boast  no  song  in  magic  wonders  rife. 
But  yet,  O  Nature  !  is  there  nought  to  prize, 
Familiar  in  thy  bosom  scenes  of  life? 
And  dwells  in  daylight  truth's  salubrious  skies 
No  form  with  which  the  soul  may  sympathize  ? 
Young,  innocent,  on  wliose  sweet  forehead  mild 
The  parted  ringlet  shone  in  simplest  guise, 
An  inmate  in  the  home  of  Albert  smiled, 
Or  blest  his  noonday  walk  — she  was  his  only  child." 

—Gertrude  of  Wyoming. 

O  TIME,  thou  hast  played  strange  tricks  with  us!  and  we 
bless  the  stars  that  made  us  a  novelist,  and  permit  us  now  to 
retaliate.  Leaving  Paul  to  the  instructions  of  Augustus  Tom- 
linson  and  the  festivities  of  the  Jolly  Angler,  and  suffering  him, 
by  slow  but  sure  degrees,  to  acquire  the  graces  and  the  reputa- 
tion of  the  accomplished  and  perfect  appropriator  of  other 
men's  possessions,  we  shall  pass  over  the  lapse  of  years  with  the 
same  heedless  rapidity  with  which  they  have  glided  over  us, 
and  summon  our  reader  to  a  very  different  scene  from  those 
which  would  be  likely  to  greet  his  eyes,  were  he  following  the 
adventures  of  our  new  Telemachus.  Nor  wilt  thou,  dear 
reader,  whom  we  make  the  umpire  between  ourselves  and 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  107 

those  who  never  read — the  critics ;  thou  who  hast,  in  the  true 
spirit  of  gentle  breeding,  gone  Avith  us  among  places  where  the 
novelty  of  the  scene  has,  we  fear,  scarcely  atoned  for  the  coarse- 
ness, not  giving  thyself  the  airs  of  a  dainty  abigail ;  not  prat- 
ing, lacquey-like,  on  the  low  company  thou  hast  met ;  nor  wilt 
thou,  dear  and,  friendly  reader,  have  cause  to  dread  that  we 
shall  weary  thy  patience  by  a  "damnable  iteration"  of  the  same 
localities.  Pausing  for  a  moment  to  glance  over  the  divisions 
of  our  story,  which  lies  before  us  like  a  map,  we  feel  that  we 
may  promise  in  future  to  conduct  thee  among  aspects  of  soci- 
ety more  familiar  to  thy  habits ;  where  events  flow  to  their  al- 
lotted gulf  through  landscapes  of  more  pleasing  variety,  and 
among  tribes  of  a  more  luxurious  civilization. 

Upon  the  banks  of  one  of  fair  England's  fairest  rivers,  and 
about  fifty  miles  distant  from  London,  still  stands  an  old- 
fashioned  abode,  which  we  shall  here  term  Warlock  Manor- 
house.  It  is  a  building  of  brick,  varied  by  stone  copings,  and 
covered  in  great  part  with  ivy  and  jasmine.  Around  it  lie  the 
ruins  of  the  elder  part  of  the  fabric,  and  these  are  sufficiently 
numerous  in  extent,  and  important  in  appearance,  to  testify 
that  the  mansion  was  once  not  without  pretensions  to  the  mag- 
nificent. These  remains  of  power,  some  of  which  bear  date  as 
far  back  as  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Third,  are  sanctioned  by 
the  character  of  the  country  immediately  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
old  manor-house.  A  vast  tract  of  waste  land,  interspersed 
with  groves  of  antique  pollards,  and  here  and  there  irregular 
and  sinuous  ridges  of  green  mound,,  betoken  to  the  expe- 
rienced eye  the  evidence  of  a  dismantled  chase  or  park,  which 
must  originally  have  been  of  no  common  dimensions.  On  one 
side  of  the  house  the  lawn  slopes  towards  the  river,  divided 
from  a  terrace,  which  forms  the  most  important  embellishment 
of  the  pleasure-grounds,  by  that  fence  to  which  has  been  given 
the  ingenious  and  significant  name  of  "ha-ha!"  A  few  scat- 
tered trees  of  giant  growth  are  the  sole  obstacles  that  break  the 
view  of  the  river,  which  has  often  seemed  to  us,  at  that  partic- 
ular passage  of  its  course,  to  glide  with  unusual  calmness  and 
serenity.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  stream  there  is  a  range 
of  steep  hills,  celebrated  for  nothing  more  romantic  than  their 
property  of  imparting  to  the  flocks  that  browse  upon  their  short, 
and  seemingly  stinted  herbage,  a  flavor  peculiarly  grateful  to  the 
lovers  of  that  pastoral  animal  which  changes  its  name  into  mut- 
ton after  its  decease.  Upon  these  hills  the  vestige  of  human 
habitation  is  not  visible ;  and  at  times,  when  no  boat  defaces 
the  lonely  smoothness  of  the  river,  and  the  evening  has  stilled 


io8  PAUL  CLIFFORD. 

the  sounds  of  labor  and  of  life,  we  know  few  scenes  so  utterly 
tranquil,  so  steeped  in  quiet,  as  that  which  is  presented  by  the 
old,  quaint-fashioned  house  and  its  antique  grounds;  the 
smooth  lawn,  the  silent,  and  (to  speak  truly,  though  disparag- 
ingly) the  somewhat  sluggish  river,  together  with  the  large  hills 
(to  which  we  know,  from  simple,  though  metaphysical  causes, 
how  entire  an  idea  of  quiet,  and  immovability,  peculiarly  at- 
taches itself),  and  the  white  flocks — those  most  peaceful  of 
God's  creatures, — that  in  fleecy  clusters  stud  the  ascent. 

In  Warlock  House,  at  the  time  we  refer  to,  lived  a  gentle- 
man of  the  name  of  Brandon.  He  was  a  widower,  and  had 
attained  his  fiftieth  year,  without  casting  much  regret  on  the 
past,  or  feeling  much  anxiety  for  the  future.  In  a  word,  Joseph 
Brandon  was  one  of  those  careless,  quiescent,  indifferent  men, 
by  whom  a  thought  upon  any  subject  is  never  recurred  to  with- 
out a  very  urgent  necessity.  He  was  good-natured,  inoffen- 
sive, and  weak ;  and,  if  he  was  not  an  incomparable  citizen,  he 
was,  at  least,  an  excellent  vegetable.  He  was  of  a  family  of 
high  antiquity,  and  formerly  of  considerable  note.  For  the  last 
four  or  five  generations,  however,  the  proprietors  of  Warlock 
House,  gradually  losing  something  alike  from  their  acres  and 
their  consequence,  had  left  to  their  descendant  no  higher  rank 
than  that  of  a  small  country  squire.  One  had  been  a  Jacobite, 
and  had  drunk  out  half  a  dozen  farms  in  honor  of  Charley  over 
the  water — Charley  over  the  water  was  no  very  dangerous  per- 
son, but  Charley  over  the  wine  was  rather  more  ruinous.  The 
next  Brandon  had  been  a  fox-hunter,  and  fox-hunters  live  as 
largely  as  patriotic  politicians.  Pausanias  tells  us  that  the  same 
people  who  were  the  most  notorious  for  their  love  of  wine 
were  also  the  most  notorious  for  their  negligence  of  affairs. 
Times  are  not  much  altered  since  Pausanias  wrote,  and  the 
remark  holds  as  good  with  the  English  as  it  did  with  the  Phig- 
alei.  After  this  Brandon  came  one  who,  though  he  did  not 
scorn  the  sportsman,  rather  assumed  the  fine  gentleman.  He 
married  an  heiress,  who,  of  course,  assisted  to  ruin  him ;  wish- 
ing no  assistance  in  so  pleasing  an  occupation,  he  overturned 
her  (perhaps  not  on  purpose),  in  a  new  sort  of  carriage  which  he 
was  learning  to  drive,  and  the  good  lady  was  killed  on  the  spot. 
She  left  the  fine  gentleman  two  sons,  Joseph  Brandon,  the  pres- 
ent thane,  and  a  brother  some  years  younger.  The  elder, 
being  of  a  fitting  age,  was  sent  to  school,  and  somewhat  escaped 
the  contagion  of  the  paternal  mansion.  But  the  younger  Bran- 
don, having  only  reached  his  fifth  year  at  the  time  of  his  moth- 
decease,  was  retained  at  home.  Whether  he  was  hand- 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  109 

some,  or  clever,  or  impertinent,  or  like  his  father  about  the 
eyes  (that  greatest  of  all  merits),  we  know  not;  but  the  wid- 
ower became  so  fond  of  him  that  it  was  at  a  late  period,  and 
with  great  reluctance,  that  he  finally  intrusted  him  to  the 
providence  of  a  school. 

Among  harlots,  and  gamblers,  and  lords,  and  sharpers,  and 
gentlemen  of  the  guards,  together  with  their  frequent  accom- 
paniment— guards  of  the  gentlemen — viz.  bailiffs,  William 
Brandon  passed  the  first  stage  of  his  boyhood.  He  was  about 
thirteen  when  he  was  sent  to  school ;  and  being  a  boy  of  re- 
markable talents,  he  recovered  lost  time  so  well,  that  when,  at 
the  age  of  nineteen,  he  adjourned  to  the  university,  he  had 
scarcely  resided  there  a  single  term  before  he  had  borne  off  two 
of  the  highest  prizes  awarded  to  academical  merit.  From  the 
university  he  departed  on  the  "grand  tour,"  at  that  time 
thought  so  necessary  to  complete  the  gentleman:  he  went  in 
company  with  a  young  nobleman,  whose  friendship  he  had  won 
at  the  university,  stayed  abroad  more  than  two  years,  and  on 
his  return  he  settled  down  to  the  profession  of  the  law. 

Meanwhile  his  father  died,  and  his  fortune,  as  a  younger 
brother,  being  literally  next  to  nothing,  and  the  family  estate 
(for  his  brother  was  not  unwilling  to  assist  him)  being  terribly 
involved,  it  was  believed  that  he  struggled  for  some  years  with 
very  embarassed  and  penurious  circumstances.  During  this 
interval  of  his  life,  however,  he  was  absent  from  London,  and 
by  his  brother  supposed  to  have  returned  to  the  continent :  at 
length,  it  seems,  he  profited  by  a  renewal  of  the  friendship  with 
the  young  nobleman  who  had  accompanied  him  abroad,  reap- 
peared in  town,  and  obtained,  through  his  noble  friend,  one  or 
two  legal  appointments  of  reputable  emolument:  soon  after- 
wards he  got  a  brief  on  some  cause  where  a  major  had  been 
raising  a  corps  to  his  brother  officer,  with  the  better  consent  of 
the  brother-officer's  wife  than  of  the  brother  officer  himself. 
Brandon's  abilities  here,  for  the  first  time  in  his  profession, 
found  an  adequate  vent ;  his  reputation  seemed  made  at  once ; 
he  rose  rapidly  in  his  profession,  and,  at  the  time  we  now 
speak  of,  he  was  sailing  down  the  full  tide  of  fame  and  wealth, 
the  envy  and  the  oracle  of  all  young  Templars  and  barristers, 
who,  having  been  starved  themselves  for  ten  years,  began  now 
to  calculate  on  the  possibility  of  starving  their  clients.  At  an 
early  period  in  his  career  he  had,  through  the  good  offices  of 
the  nobleman  we  have  mentioned,  obtained  a  seat  in  the  House 
of  Commons ;  and  though  his  eloquence  was  of  an  order  much 
better  suited  to  the  bar  than  the  senate,  he  had  nevertheless 


110  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

acquired  a  very  considerable  reputation  in  the  latter,  and  wa? 
looked  upon  by  many  as  likely  to  win  to  the  same  brilliant  for- 
tunes as  the  courtly  Mansfield — a  great  man,  whose  political 
principles  and  urbane  address  Brandon  was  supposed  especially 
to  affect  as  his  own  model.  Of  unblemished  integrity  in  pub- 
lic life — for,  as  he  supported  all  things  that  exist  with  the  most 
unbending  rigidity,  he  could  not  be  accused  of  inconsistency — 
William  Brandon  was  (as  we  have  said  in  a  former  place  of 
unhappy  memory  to  our  hero)  esteemed  in  private  life  the  most 
honorable,  the  most  moral,  even  the  most  austere  of  men;  and 
his  grave  and  stern  repute  on  this  score,  joined  to  the  dazzle  of 
his  eloquence  and  forensic  powers,  had  baffled  in  great  measure 
the  rancor  of  party  hostility,  and  obtained  for  him  a  character 
for  virtues  almost  as  high  and  as  enviable  as  that  which  he  had 
acquired  for  abilities. 

While  William  was  thus  treading  a  noted  and  an  honorable 
career,  his  elder  brother,  who  had  married  into  a  clergyman's 
family,  and  soon  lost  his  consort,  had  with  his  only  child,  a 
daughter  named  Lucy,  resided  in  his  paternal  mansion  in  un- 
disturbed obscurity.  The  discreditable  character  and  habits  of 
the  preceding  lords  of  Warlock,  which  had  sunk  their  respect- 
ability in  the  county,  as  well  as  curtailed  their  property,  had 
rendered  the  surrounding  gentry  little  anxious  to  cultivate  the 
intimacy  of  the  present  proprietor;  and  the  heavy  mind  and 
retired  manners  of  Joseph  Brandon  were  not  calculated  to 
counterbalance  the  faults  of  his  forefathers,  nor  to  reinstate 
the  name  of  Brandon  in  its  ancient  popularity  and  esteem. 
Though  dull  and  little  cultivated,  the  squire  was  not  without 
his  "proper  pride"  ;  he  attempted  not  to  intrude  himself  where 
he  was  unwelcome,  avoided  county  meetings  and  county  balls, 
smoked  his  pipe  with  the  parson,  and  not  unoften  with  the  sur- 
geon and  solicitor,  and  suffered  his  daughter  Lucy  to  educate 
herself,  with  the  help  of  the  parson's  wife,  and  to  ripen  (for 
Nature  was  more  favorable  to  her  than  Art)  into  the  very  pret- 
tiest girl  that  the  whole  county — we  long  to  say  the  whole  coun- 
try— at  that  time  could  boast  of.  Never  did  glass  give  back  a 
more  lovely  image  than  that  of  Lucy  Brandon  at  the  age  of 
nineteen.  Her  auburn  hair  fell  in  the  richest  luxuriance  over 
a  brow  never  ruffled,  and  a  cheek  where  the  blood  never  slept; 
with  every  instant  the  color  varied,  and  at  every  variation  that 
smooth,  pure,  virgin  cheek  seemed  still  more  lovely  than  be- 
fore. She  had  the  most  beautiful  laugh  that  one  who  loved 
music  could  imagine, — silvery,  low,  and  yet  so  full  of  joy !  all 
her  movements,  as  the  old  parson  said,  seemed  to  keep  time  to 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  Ill 

that  laugh ;  for  mirth  made  a  great  part  of  her  innocent  and 
childish  temper ;  and  yet  the  mirth  was  feminine,  never  loud, 
nor  like  that  of  young  ladies  who  had  received  the  last  finish  at 
Highgate  seminaries.  Everything  joyous  affected  her,  and  at 
once ;  air,  flowers,  sunshine,  butterflies.  Unlike  heroines  in 
general,  she  very  seldom  cried,  and  she  saw  nothing  charming 
in  having  the  vapors.  But  she  never  looked  so  beautiful  as  in 
sleep !  and  as  the  light  breath  came  from  her  parted  lips,  and 
the  ivory  lids  closed  over  those  eyes  which  only  in  sleep  were 
silent,  and  her  attitude  in  her  sleep  took  that  ineffable  grace 
belonging  solely  to  childhood,  or  the  fresh  youth  into  which 
childhood  merges,  she  was  just  what  you  might  imagine  asleep- 
ing  Margaret,  before  that  most  simple  and  gentle  of  all  a  poet's 
visions  of  womanhood  had  met  with  Faust,  or  her  slumbers 
been  ruffled  with  a  dream  of  love. 

We  cannot  say  much  for  Lucy's  intellectual  acquirements; 
she  could,  thanks  to  the  parson's  wife,  spell  indifferently  well, 
and  write  a  tolerable  hand;  she  made  preserves,  and  sometimes 
riddles —  it  was  more  difficult  to  question  the  excellence  of  the 
former  than  to  answer  the  queries  of  the  latter.  She  worked  to 
the  admiration  of  all  who  knew  her,  and  we  beg  leave  to  say 
that  we  deem  that  "an  excellent  thing  in  woman."  She  made 
caps  for  herself  and  gowns  for  the  poor,  and  now  and  then  she 
accomplished  the  more  literary  labor  of  a  stray  novel  that  had 
wandered  down  to  the  Manor-house,  or  an  abridgement  of  an- 
cient history,  in  which  was  omitted  everything  but  the  proper 
names.  To  these  attainments  she  added  a  certain  modicum  of 
skill  upon  the  spinet,  and  the  power  of  singing  old  songs  with 
the  richest  and  sweetest  voice  that  ever  made  one's  eyes  moist- 
en, or  one's  heart  beat. 

Her  moral  qualities  were  more  fully  developed  than  her  men- 
tal. She  was  the  kindest  of  human  beings ;  the  very  dog  that 
had  never  seen  her  before  knew  that  truth  at  the  first  glance, 
and  lost  no  time  in  making  her  acquaintance.  The  goodness 
of  her  heart  reposed  upon  her  face  like  sunshine,  and  the  old 
wife  at  the  lodge  said  poetically  and  truly  of  the  effect  it  pro- 
duced, that  "one  felt  warm  when  one  looked  on  her."  If  we 
could  abstract  from  the  description  a  certain  chilling  transpar- 
ency, the  following  exquisite  verses  of  a  forgotten  poet  *  might 
express  the  purity  and  lustre  of  her  countenance: 

"  Her  face  was  like  the  milky  way  i'  the  sky. 
A  meeting  of  gentle  lights  without  a  name." 

She  was    surrounded  by  pets  of  all   kinds,  ugly  and    hand' 

.Suckling. 


112  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

some,  from  Ralph,  the  raven,  to  Beauty,  the  pheasant,  and 
from  Bob,  the  sheep-dog  without  a  tail,  to  Beau,  the  Blenheim 
with  blue  ribands  round  his  neck;  all  things  loved  her,  and  she 
loved  all  things.  It  seemed  doubtful  at  that  time  whether  she 
would  ever  have  sufficient  steadiness  and  strength  of  character. 
Her  beauty  and  her  character  appeared  so  essentially  woman- 
like— soft,  yet  lively,  buoyant,  yet  caressing, — that  you  could 
scarcely  place  in  her  that  moral  dependence  that  you  might  in  a 
character  less  amiable,  but  less  yieldingly  feminine.  Time, 
however,  and  circumstance,  which  alter  and  harden,  were  to 
decide  whether  the  inward  nature  did  not  possess  some  latent 
and  yet  undiscovered  properties.  Such  was  Lucy  Brandon,  in 
the  year  — ,  and  in  that  year,  on  a  beautiful  autumnal  evening, 
we  first  introduce  her  personally  to  our  readers. 

She  was  sitting  on  a  garden-seat  by  the  river-side  with  her 
father,  who  was  deliberately  conning  the  evening  paper  of  a 
former  week,  and  gravely  seasoning  the  ancient  news  with  the 
inspirations  of  that  weed  which  so  bitterly  excited  the  royal  in- 
dignation of  our  British  Solomon.  It  happens,  unfortunately 
for  us — for  outward  peculiarities  are  scarcely  worthy  the  dig- 
nity to  which  comedy,  whether  in  the  drama  or  the  narrative, 
aspires — that  Squire  Brandon  possessed  so  few  distinguishing 
traits  of  mind  that  he  leaves  his  delineator  little  whereby  to 
designate  him,  save  a  confused  and  parenthetical  habit  of 
speech,  by  which  he  very  often  appeared  to  those  who  did 
not  profit  by  long  experience,  or  close  observation,  to  say  ex- 
actly, and  somewhat  ludicrously,  that  which  he  did  not  mean 
to  convey. 

"I  say,  Lucy,"  observed  Mr.  Brandon,  but  without  lifting 
his  eyes  from  the  paper;  "I  say,  corn  has  fallen — think  of 
that,  girl,  think  of  that !  These  times,  in  my  opinion  (ay,  and 
in  the  opinion  of  wiser  heads  than  mine,  though  I  do  not  mean 
to  say  that  I  have  not  some  experience  in  these  matters,  which 
is  more  than  can  be  said  of  all  our  neighbors),  are  very  curi- 
ous, and  even  dangerous." 

"Indeed,  papa!"  answered  Lucy. 

"And  I  say,  Lucy,  dear,"  resumed  the  squire  after  a  short 
pause,  "there  has  been  (and  very  strange  it  is,  too,  when  one 
considers  the  crowded  neighborhood — Bless  me !  what  times 
these  are ! )  a  shocking  murder  committed  upon  (the  tobacco-stop- 
per— there  it  is) — think,  you  know,  girl — just  by  Epping! — an 
old  gentleman ! ' ' 

"Dear,  how  shocking!  by  whom?" 

"Ay,  that's  the  question!     The  coroner's  inquest  has  (what 


i>AUL   CLIFFORD.  41$ 

a  blessing  it  is  to  live  in  a  civilized  country,  where  a  man  does 
not  die  without  knowing  the  why  and  wherefore!)  sat  on  the 
body,  and  declared  (it  is  very  strange,  but  they  don't  seem  to 
have  made  much  discovery ;  for  why?  we  knew  as  much  be- 
fore) that  the  body  was  found  (it  was  found  on  the  floor, 
Lucy),  murdered ;  murdered  or  murderers  (in  the  bureau^ 
which  was  broken  open,  they  found  the  money  left  quite  un- 
touched)— unknown ! ' ' 

Here  there  was  again  a  slight  pause,  and  passing  to  another 
side  of  the  paper,  Mr.  Brandon  resumed  in  a  quicker  tone: 

"Ha!  well,  now  this  is  odd!  But  he's  a  deuced  clever  fel- 
low, Lucy!  that  brother  of  mine  has  (and  in  a  very  honorable 
manner  too,  which  I  am  sure  is  highly  creditable  to  the  family, 
though  he  has  not  taken  too  much  notice  of  me  lately — a  cir- 
cumstance which,  considering  I  am  his  elder  brother  I  am  a 
little  angry  at) — distinguished  himself  in  a  speech,  remarkable, 
the  paper  says,  for  its  great  legal — (1  wonder,  by  the  by, 
whether  William  could  get  me  that  agistment-money !  'tis  a 
heavy  thing  to  lose;  but  going  to  law,  as  my  poor  father  used 
to  say,  is  like  fishing  for  gudgeons  [not  a  bad  little  fish,  we  can 
have  some  for  si4pper\  -with  guineas} — knowledge,  as  well  as 
its  splendid  and  overpowering  (I  do  love  Will  for  keeping  up 
the  family  honor;  I  am  sure  it  is  more  than  I  have  done — 
heighho!) — eloquence ! " 

"And  on  what  subject  has  he  been  speaking,  papa?" 

"Oh,  a  very  fine  subject;  what  you  called  a — (it  is  astonish- 
ing that  in  this  country  there  should  be  such  a  wish  for  taking 
away  people's  characters,  which,  for  my  part,  I  don't  see  is  a 
bit  more  entertaining  than  what  you  are  always  doing — playing 
with  those  stupid  birds) — libel!" 

"But  is  not  my  Uncle  William  coming  down  to  see  us?  He 
promised  to  do  so,  and  it  made  you  quite  happy,  papa,  for  two 
days.  I  hope  he  will  not  disappoint  you ;  and  I  am  sure  that 
it  is  not  his  fault  if  he  ever  seems  to  neglect  you.  He  spoke  of 
you  to  me,  when  I  saw  him,  in  the  kindest  and  most  affection- 
ate manner.  I  do  think,  my  dear  father,  that  he  loves  you 
very  much." 

"Ahem!"  said  the  squire,  evidently  flattered,  and  yet  not 
convinced.  "My  brother  Will  is  a  very  acute  fellow,  and  I 
make  no — my  dear  little  girl — question,  but  that — (when  you 
have  seen  as  much  of  the  world  as  I  have,  you  will  grow  suspi- 
cious)— he  thought  that  any  good  word  said  of  me  to  my 
daughter  would — (you  see,  Lucy,  I  am  as  clear-sighted  as  my 
neighbors,  though  I  don't  give  myself  all  their  airs ;  which  I  very 


U4  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

well  might  do,  considering  my  great  great  great  grandfather, 
Hugo  Brandon,  had  a  hand  in  detecting  the  gunpowder 
plot)— be  told  to  me  again!" 

"Nay,  but  I  am  quite  sure  my  uncle  never  spoke  of  you  to 
me  with  that  intention." 

"Possibly,  my  dear  child;  but  when  (the  evenings  are  much 
shorter  than  they  were!)  did  you  talk  with  your  uncle 
about  me?" 

"Oh,  when  staying  with  Mrs.  Warner,  in  London;  to  be 
sure,  it  is  six  years  ago ;  but  I  remember  it  perfectly.  I  recol- 
lect, in  particular,  that  he  spoke  of  you  very  handsomely  to 
Lord  Mauleverer,  who  dined  with  him  one  evening  when  I  was 
there,  and  when  my  uncle  was  so  kind  as  to  take  me  to  the 
play.  I  was  afterwards  quite  sorry  that  he  was  so  good- 
natured,  as  he  lost  (you  remember  I  told  you  the  story)  a 
very  valuable  watch." 

"Ay,  ay,  I  remember  all  about  that,  and  so, — how  long  friend- 
ship lasts  with  some  people!  Lord  Mauleverer  dined  with 
William !  What  a  fine  thing  it  is  for  a  man  (it  is  what  I  never 
did,  indeed,  I  like  being  what  they  call  'Cock  of  the  Walk  ' — 
let  me  see,  now  I  think  of  it,  Pillum  comes  to-night  to  play  a 
hit  at  backgammon) — to  make  friends  with  a  great  man  early 
in  (yet  Will  did  not  do  it  very  early,  poor  fellow !  he  struggled 
first  with  a  great  deal  of  sorrow — hardship  that  is  )  life!  It 
is  many  years  now  since  Will  has  been  hand-and-glove  with  my 
('tis  a  bit  of  a  puppy)  Mauleverer, — what  do  you  think  of  his 
lordship?" 

"Of  Lord  Mauleverer?  Indeed  I  scarcely  observed  him; 
but  he  seemed  a  handsome  man  and  was  very  polite.  Mrs. 
Warner  said  he  had  been  a  very  wicked  person  when  he  was 
young,  but  he  seems  good-natured  enough  now,  papa." 

"By  the  by,"  said  the  squire,  "his  lordship  has  just  been 
made — (this  new  ministry  seems  very  unlike  the  old,  which 
rather  puzzles  me;  for  I  think  it  is  my  duty,  d'ye  see,  Lucy, 
always  to  vote  for  his  Majesty's  government,  especially  seeing 
that  old  Hugo  Brandon  had  a  hand  in  detecting  the  gunpowder 
plot ;  and  it  is  a  little  odd,  at  least  at  first  to  think  that  good 
now,  which  one  has  always  before  been  thinking  abominable) 
Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  county." 

"Lord  Mauleverer  our  Lord  Lieutenant?" 

"Yes,  child;  and  since  his  lordship  is  such  a  friend  of  my 
brother's,  I  should  think,  considering  especially  what  an  old 
family  in  the  county  we  are, — not  that  I  wish  to  intrude  myself 
where  I  am  not  thought  as  fine  as  the  rest — that  he  would  be 


JPAtJL    CLIFFORD.  11$ 

more  attentive  to  us  than  Lord  —  -  was ;  but  that,  my  dear 
Lucy,  puts  me  in  mind  of  Pillum,  and  so,  perhaps,  you  would 
like  to  walk  to  the  parson's,  as  it  is  a  fine  evening.  John 
shall  come  for  you  at  nine  o'clock  with  (the  moon  is  not  up 
then)  the  lantern." 

Leaning  on  his  daughter's  willing  arm,  the  good  old  man 
then  rose  and  walked  homeward;  and  so  soon  as  she  had 
wheeled  round  his  easy  chair,  placed  the  backgammon-board  on 
the  table,  and  wished  the  old  gentleman  an  easy  victory  over 
his  expected  antagonist  the  apothecary,  Lucy  tied  down  her 
bonnet,  and  took  her  way  to  the  rectory. 

When  she  arrived  at  the  clerical  mansion,  and  entered  the 
drawing-room,  she  was  surprised  to  find  the  parson's  wife,  a 
good,  homely,  lethargic  old  lady,  run  up  to  her,  seemingly  in 
a  state  of  great  nervous  agitation,  and  crying : 

"Oh,  my  dear  Miss  Brandon!  which  way  did  you  come? 
Did  you  meet  nobody  by  the  road?  Oh,  I  am  so  frightened! 
Such  an  accident  to  poor  dear  Dr.  Slopperton !  Stopped  in 
the  king's  highway,  robbed  of  some  tithe-money  he  had  just 
received  from  Farmer  Slowforth :  if  it  had  not  been  for  that 
dear  angel,  good  young  man,  God  only  knows  whether  I  might 
not  have  been  a  disconsolate  widow  by  this  time!" 

While  the  affectionate  matron  was  thus  running  on,  Lucy's 
eye  glancing  round  the  room  discovered  in  an  arm-chair  the 
round  and  oily  little  person  of  Dr.  Slopperton,  with  a  counte- 
nance from  which  all  the  carnation  hues,  save  in  one  circular 
excrescence  on  the  nasal  member,  that  was  left,  like  the  last  rose 
of  summer,  blooming  alone,  were  faded  into  an  aspect  of  miser- 
able pallor:  the  little  man  tried  to  conjure  up  a  smile  while  his 
wife  was  narrating  his  misfortune,  and  to  mutter  forth  some 
syllable  of  unconcern ;  but  he  looked,  for  all  his  bravado,  so 
exceedingly  scared,  that  Lucy  would,  despite  herself,  have 
laughed  outright,  had  not  her  eye  rested  upon  the  figure  of  a 
young  man  who  had  been  seated  beside  the  reverend  gentle- 
man, but  who  had  risen  at  Lucy's  entrance,  and  who  now 
stood  gazing  upon  her  intently,  but  with  an  air  of  great  respect. 
Blushing  deeply  and  involuntarily,  she  turned  her  eyes  hastily 
away,  and  approaching  the  good  doctor,  made  her  inquiries 
into  the  present  state  of  his  nerves  in  a  graver  tone  than  she 
had  a  minute  before  imagined  it  possible  that  she  should  have 
been  enabled  to  command. 

"Ah!  my  good  young  lady,"  said  the  doctor,  squeezing  her 
hand,  "I — may,  I  may  say  the  church — for  am  I  not  its  min- 
ister?— was  in  imminent  danger ;  but  this  excellent  gentleman. 


fl6  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

prevented  the  sacrilege,  at  least  in  great  measure.  I  only  lost 
some  of  my  dues — my  rightful  dues — for  which  I  console  my- 
self with  thinking  that  the  infamous  and  abandoned  villain 
will  suffer  hereafter." 

"There  cannot  be  the  least  doubt  of  ///#/,"  said  the  young 
man :  '  'had  he  only  robbed  the  mail  coach,  or  broken  into  a  gen- 
tleman's house,  the  offence  might  have  been  expiable;  but  to 
rob  a  clergyman,  and  a  rector,  too!  Oh,  the  sacrilegious  dog!" 

"Your  warmth  does  you  honor,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  begin- 
ning now  to  recover;  "and  I  am  very  proud  to  have  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a  gentleman  of  such  truly  religious  opinions!" 

"Ah?"  cried  the  stranger,  "my  foible,  sir — if  I  may  so 
speak — is  a  sort  of  enthusiastic  fervor  for  the  Protestant  Es- 
tablishment. Nay,  sir,  I  never  come  across  the  very  nave  of 
the  church,  without  feeling  an  indescribable  emotion — a  kind 
of  sympathy,  as  it  were, — with — with — you  understand  me,  sir — 
I  fear  I  express  myself  ill." 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all!"  exclaimed  the  doctor:  "such  senti- 
ments are  uncommon  in  one  so  young." 

"Sir,  I  learned  them  early  in  life  from  a  friend  and  precep- 
tor of  mine,  Mr.  Mac  Grawler,  and  I  trust  they  may  continue 
with  me  to  my  dying  day." 

Here  the  doctor's  servant  entered  with  (we  borrow  a  phrase 

from  the  novel  of )  "the  tea-equipage,"  and  Mrs.  Slop- 

perton,  betaking  herself  to  its  superintendence,  inquired,  with 
more  composure  than  hitherto  had  belonged  to  her  demeanor, 
what  sort  of  a  looking  creature  the  ruffian  was? 

"I  will  tell  you,  my  dear,  I  will  tell  you,  Miss  Lucy,  all 
about  it.  I  was  walking  home  from  Mr.  Slowforth's,  with  his 
money  in  my  pocket,  thinking,  my  love,  of  buying  you  that 
topaz  cross  you  wished  to  have." 

"Dear  good  man!"  cried  Mrs.  Slopperton;  "what  a  fiend  it 
must  have  been  to  rob  so  excellent  a  creature." 

"And,"  resumed  the  doctor,  "it  also  occurred  to  me  that  the 
Madeira  was  nearly  out — the  Madeira,  I  mean,  with  the  red 
seal ;  and  I  was  thinking  it  might  not  be  amiss  to  devote  part 
of  the  money  to  buy  six  dozen  more;  and  the  remainder,  my 
love,  which  would  be  about  one  pound  eighteen,  I  thought  I 
would  divide, — 'for  he  that  giveth  to  the  poor  lendeth  to  the 
Lord ! ' — among  the  thirty  poor  families  on  the  common :  that 
is,  if  they  behaved  well,  and  the  apples  in  the  back  garden 
were  not  feloniously  abstracted!" 

"Excellent,  charitable  man!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Slopperton. 

"While  I  was  thus  meditating  I  lifted  my  eyes  and  saw  before 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  117 

me  two  men ;  one  of  prodigious  height,  and  with  a  great  profu- 
sion of  hair  about  his  shoulders;  the  other  was  smaller,  and 
wore  his  hat  slouched  over  his  face;  it  was  a  very  large  hat. 
My  attention  was  arrested  by  the  singularity  of  the  tall  person's 
hair,  and  while  I  was  smiling  at  its  luxuriance,  I  heard  him  say 
to  his  companion :  'Well,  Augustus,  as  you  are  such  a  moral 
dog,  he  is  in  your  line,  not  mine:  so  I  leave  him  to  you.'  Lit- 
tle did  I  think  these  words  related  to  me.  No  sooner  were 
they  uttered  than  the  tall  rascal  leaped  over  a  gate  and  disap- 
peared; the  other  fellow  then  marching  up  to  me,  very 
smoothly  asked  me  the  way  to  the  church,  and  while  I  was  ex- 
plaining to  him  to  turn  first  to  the  right  and  then  to  the  left,  and 
so  on — for  the  best  way  is,  you  know,  exceedingly  crooked — the 
hypocritical  scoundrel  seized  me  by  the  collar,  and  cried  out: 
'Your  money,  or  your  life!'  I  do  assure  you  that  I  never 
trembled  so  much;  not,  my  dear  Miss  Lucy,  so  much  for  my 
own  sake,  as  for  the  sake  of  the  thirty  poor  families  on  the 
common,  whose  wants  it  had  been  my  intention  to  relieve.  I 
gave  up  the  money,  finding  my  prayers  and  expostulations 
were  in  vain;  and  the  dog  then,  brandishing  over  my  head  an 
enormous  bludgeon,  said — what  abominable  language! — 'I 
think,  doctor,  I  shall  put  an  end  to  an  existence  deroga- 
tory to  yourself  and  useless  to  others.'  At  that  moment  the 
young  gentleman  beside  me  sprang  over  the  very  gate  by  which 
the  tall  ruffian  had  disappeared,  and  cried,  'Hold,  villain!' 
On  seeing  my  deliverer  the  coward  started  back,  and  plunged 
into  a  neighboring  wood.  The  good  young  gentleman  pursued 
him  for  a  few  moments,  but  then  returning  to  my  aid,  con- 
ducted me  home;  and  as  we  used  to  say  at  school: 

"  '  Te  rediisse  incolumem  gaudeo.' 

Which,  being  interpreted,  means, — (sir,  excuse  a  pun,  I  am 
sure  so  great  a  friend  to  the  church  understands  Latin) — that 
I  am  very  glad  to  get  back  safe  to  my  tea.  He!  he!  And  now, 
Miss  Lucy,  you  must  thank  that  young  gentleman  for  having 
saved  the  life  of  your  pastoral  teacher,  which  act  will  no 
doubt  be  remembered  at  the  Great  Day!" 

As  Lucy,  looking  towards  the  stranger,  said  something  in 
compliment,  she  observed  a  vague,  and,  as  it  were,  covert 
smile  upon  his  countenance,  which  immediately,  and  as  if  by 
sympathy,  conjured  one  to  her  own.  The  hero  of  the  adven- 
ture, however,  in  a  very  grave  tone,  replied  to  her  compliment, 
at  the  same  time  bowing  profoundly : 

"Mention  it  not,  madam!     I  were  unworthy  of  the  name  of 


Ii8  PAUL  CLIFFORD. 

a  Briton  and  a  man,  could  I  pass  the  highway  without  relieving 
the  distress,  or  lightening  the  burthen,  of  a  fellow-creature. 
And,"  continued  the  stranger,  after  a  momentary  pause,  color- 
ing while  he  spoke,  and  concluding  in  the  high-flown  gallantry 
of  the  day,  "methinks  it  were  sufficient  reward,  had  I  saved 
the  whole  church,  instead  of  one  of  its  most  valuable  members, 
to  receive  the  thanks  of  a  lady  whom  I  might  reasonably  take 
for  one  of  those  celestial  beings  to  whom  we  have  been  piously 
taught  that  the  church  is  especially  the  care!" 

Though  there  might  have  been  something  really  ridiculous  in 
this  overstrained  compliment,  coupled  as  it  was  with  the  pres- 
ervation of  Dr.  Slopperton,  yet,  coming  from  the  mouth  of  one 
whom  Lucy  thought  the  very  handsomest  person  she  had  ever 
seen,  it  appeared  to  her  anything  but  absurd ;  and,  for  a  very 
long  time  afterwards,  her  heart  thrilled  with  pleasure  when  she 
remembered  that  the  cheek,  of  the  speaker  had  glowed,  and 
his  voice  had  trembled,  as  he  spoke  it. 

The  conversation  now,  turning  from  robbers  in  particular, 
dwelt  upon  robberies  in  general.  It  was  edifying  to  hear  the 
honest  indignation  with  which  the  stranger  spoke  of  the  lawless 
depredators  with  whom  the  country,  in  that  day  of  Macheaths, 
was  infested. 

"A  pack  of  infamous  rascals!"  said  he,  in  a  glow;  "who 
attempt  to  justify  their  misdeeds  by  the  example  of  honest 
men;  and  who  say  that  they  do  no  more  than  is  done  by  law- 
yers and  doctors,  soldiers,  clergymen,  and  ministers  of  state. 
Pitiful  delusion,  or  rather  shameless  hypocrisy!" 

"It  all  comes  of  educating  the  poor,"  said  the  doctor.  "The 
moment  they  pretend  to  judge  the  conduct  of  their  betters, 
there's  an  end  of  all  order !  They  see  nothing  sacred  in  the 
laws,  though  we  hang  the  dogs  ever  so  fast;  and  the  very 
peers  of  the  land,  spiritual  and  temporal,  cease  to  be  venerable 
in  their  eyes." 

"Talking  of  peers,"  sad  Mrs.  Slopperton,  "I  hear  that  Lord 
Mauleverer  is  to  pass  by  this  road  to-night,  on  his  way  to 
Mauleverer  Park.  Do  you  know  his  lordship,  Miss  Lucy?  he 
is  very  intimate  with  your  uncle." 

"I  have  only  seen  him  once,"  answered  Lucy. 

"Are  you  sure  that  his  lordship  will  come  this  road?"  asked 
the  stranger  carelessly:  "I  heard  something  of  it  this  morning, 
but  did  not  know  it  was  settled." 

"Oh,  quite  so!"  rejoined  Mrs.  Slopperton.  "His  lord- 
ship's gentleman  wrote  for  post-horses  to  meet  his  lordship 
at  Wyburn,  about  three  miles  on  the  other  side  of  the  village, 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  1 19 

at  ten  o'clock  to-night.  His  lordship  is  very  impatient  of 
delay." 

"Pray,"  said  the  doctor,  who  had  not  much  heeded  this 
turn  in  the  conversation,  and  was  now  "on  hospitable  cares 
intent";  "pray,  sir,  if  not  impertinent,  are  you  visiting, 
or  lodging  in  the  neighborhood;  or  will  you  take  a  bed 
with  us?" 

"You  are  extremely  kind,  my  dear  sir,  but  I  must  soon  wish 
you  good-evening.  I  have  to  look  after  a  little  property  I  have 
some  miles  hence,  which,  indeed,  brought  me  down  into  this 
part  of  the  world." 

"Property!  in  what  direction,  sir,  if  I  may  ask?"  quoth  the 
doctor;  "I  know  the  country  for  miles." 

"Do  you,  indeed?  Where's  my  property,  you  say?  Why,  it 
is  rather  difficult  to  describe  it,  and  it  is,  after  all,  a  mere  trifle : 
it  is  only  some  common-land  near  the  high-road,  and  I  came 
down  to  try  the  experiment  of  hedging  and  draining." 

"  'Tis  a  good  plan,  if  one  has  capital,  and  does  not  require 
a  speedy  return." 

"Yes;  but  one  likes  a  good  interest  for  the  loss  of  principal, 
and  a  speedy  return  is  always  desirable;  although,  alas!  it  is 
often  attended  with  risk!" 

"I  hope,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  "if  you  must  leave  us  so 
soon,  that  your  property  will  often  bring  you  into  our  neigh- 
borhood." 

"You  overpower  me  with  so  much  unexpected  goodness," 
answered  the  stranger.  "To  tell  you  the  truth,  nothing  can 
give  me  greater  pleasure  than  to  meet  those  again  who  have 
once  obliged  me." 

"Whom  you  have  obliged,  rather!"  cried  Mrs.  Slopperton, 
and  then  added,  in  a  loud  whisper  to  Lucy:  "How  modest! 
but  it  is  always  so  with  true  courage!" 

"I  assure  you,  madam,"  returned  the  benevolent  stranger, 
"that  I  never  think  twice  of  the  little  favors  I  render  my 
fellow-men ;  my  only  hope  is,  that  they  may  be  as  forgetful  as 
myself." 

Charmed  with  so  much  unaffected  goodness  of  disposition, 
the  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Slopperton  now  set  up  a  sort  of  duet  in 
praise  of  their  guest :  after  enduring  their  commendations  and 
compliments  for  some  minutes  with  much  grimace  of  disavowal 
and  diffidence,  the  stranger's  modesty  seemed  at  last  to  take 
pain  at  the  excess  of  their  gratitude;  and,  accordingly,  point- 
ing to  the  clock  which  was  within  a  few  minutes  of  nine,  he 
said: 


120  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

'  I  fear,  my  respected  host,  and  my  admired  hostess,  that  I 
.must  now  leave  you;  I  have  far  to  go." 

"But  are  you  yourself  not  afraid  of  the  highwaymen?"  cried 
Mrs.  Slopperton,  interrupting  him. 

"The  highwaymen!"  said  the  stranger,  smiling:  "No!  I  do 
not  fear  them;  besides,  I  have  little  about  me  worth  robbing." 

"Do  you  superintend  your  property  yourself?"  said  the  doc- 
tor, who  farmed  his  own  glebe,  and  who,  unwilling  to  part  with 
so  charming  a  guest,  seized  him  now  by  the  button. 

"Superintend  it  myself!  Why,  not  exactly.  There  is  a 
bailiff,  whose  views  of  things  don't  agree  with  mine,  and  who 
now  and  then  gives  me  a  good  deal  of  trouble!" 

"Then  why  don't  you  discharge  him  altogether?" 

"Ah!  I  wish  I  could:  but  'tis  a  necessary  evil.  We  landed 
proprietors,  my  dear  sir,  must  always  be  plagued  with  some- 
thing of  the  sort.  For  my  part,  I  have  found  those  cursed 
bailiffs  would  take  away,  if  they  could,  all  the  property  one  has 
been  trying  to  accumulate.  But,"  abruptly  changing  his 
manner  into  one  of  great  softness,  "could  I  not  proffer  my 
services,  and  my  companionship  to  this  young  lady?  Would  she 
allow  me  to  conduct  her  home  and,  indeed,  stamp  this  day 
upon  my  memory  as  one  of  the  few  delightful  ones  I  have  ever 
known?" 

"Thank  you,  dear  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Slopperton,  answering  at 
once  for  Lucy;  "it  is  very  considerate  of  you;  and  I  am  sure, 
my  love,  I  could  not  think  of  letting  you  go  home  alone  with 
old  John,  after  such  an  adventure  to  the  poor,  dear  doctor." 

Lucy  began  an  excuse  which  the  good  lady  would  not  hear. 
But  as  the  servant  whom  Mr.  Brandon  was  to  send  with  a  lan- 
tern to  attend  his  daughter  home  had  not  arrived,  and  as  Mrs. 
Slopperton,  despite  her  prepossessions  in  favor  of  her  husband's 
deliverer,  did  not  fora  moment  contemplate  his  accompanying, 
without  any  other  attendance,  her  young  friend  across  the 
fields  at  that  unseasonable  hour,  the  stranger  was  forced,  for 
the  present,  to  reassume  his  seat;  an  open  harpsichord  at  one 
end  of  the  room  gave  him  an  opportunity  to  make  some  re- 
mark upon  music,  and  this  introducing  an  culogium  on  Lucy's 
voice  from  Mrs.  Slopperton,  necessarily  ended  in  a  request  to 
Miss  Brandon  to  indulge  the  stranger  with  a  song.  Never  had 
Lucy  who  was  not  a  shy  girl —  she  was  too  innocent  to  be  bash- 
ful— felt  nervous  hitherto  in  singing  before  a  stranger;  but  now 
she  hesitated  and  faltered,  and  went  through  a  whole  series  of 
little  natural  affectations  before  she  complied  with  the  request. 
She  chose  a  song  composed  somewhat  after  the  old  English 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  121 

school,  which  at  that  time  was  reviving  into  fashion.  The 
song,  though  conveying  a  sort  of  conceit,  was  not,  perhaps,  al- 
together without  tenderness ;  it  was  a  favorite  with  Lucy,  she 
scarcely  knew  why,  and  ran  thus : 

LUCY'S  SONG. 

Why  sleep,  ye  gentle  flowers,  ah,  why, 

When  tender  eve  is  falling, 
And  starlight  drinks  the  happy  sigh 

Of  winds  to  fairies  calling  ? 

Calling  with  low  and  plaining  note, 

Most  like  a  ringdove  chiding, 
Or  flute  faint-heard  from  distant  boat 

O'er  smoothest  waters  gliding. 

Lo,  round  you  steals  the  wooing  breeze — 

Lo,  on  you  falls  the  dew  ! 
O  Sweets,  awake,  for  scarcely  these 

Can  charm  while  wanting  you  ! 

Wake  ye  not  yet — while  fast  below 

The  silver  time  is  fleeing  ? 
O  Heart  of  mine,  those  flowers  but  show 

Thine  own  contented  being. 

The  twilight  but  preserves  the  bloom, 

The  sun  can  but  decay  ; 
The  warmth  that  brings  the  rich  perfume 

But  steals  the  life  away. 

O  Heart,  enjoy  thy  present  calm, 

Rest  peaceful  in  the  shade, 
And  dread  the  sun  that  gives  the  balm 

To  bid  the  blossom  fade. 

When  Lucy  ended,  the  stranger's  praise  was  less  loud  than 
either  the  doctor's  or  his  lady's ;  but  how  far  more  sweet  it 
was !  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  Lucy  made  the  discovery 
that  eyes  can  praise  as  well  as  lips.  For  our  part,  we  have 
often  thought  that  that  discovery  is  an  epoch  in  life. 

It  was  now  that  Mrs.  Slopperton  declared  her  thorough  con- 
viction that  the  stranger  himself  could  sing.  "He  had  that 
about  him,"  she  said,  "which  made  her  sure  of  it." 

"Indeed,  dear  madam,"  said  he,  with  his  usual  undefinable 
half-frank,  half-latent  smile,  "my  voice  is  but  so-so,  and  my 
memory  so  indifferent,  that  even  in  the  easiest  passages  I  soon 
come  to  a  stand.  My  best  notes  are  in  the  falsetto,  and  as  for 
my  execution — but  we  won't  talk  of  that.'" 

"  Nay,  nay;  you  are  so  modest,"  said  Mrs.  Slopperton:  "I 
am  sure  you  could  oblige  us  if  you  would." 


122  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

"Your  command,"  said  the  stranger,  moving  to  the  harpsi- 
chord, "is  all-sufficient;  and  since  you,  madam  "(turning  to 
Lucy),  "have  chosen  a  song  after  the  old  school,  may  I  find 
pardon  if  I  do  the  same?  My  selection  is,  to  be  sure,  from 
a  lawless  song-book,  and  is  supposed  to  be  a  ballad  by  Robin 
Hood,  or,  at  least,  one  of  his  merry  men ;  a  very  different  sort 
of  outlaws  from  the  knaves  who  attacked  you,  sir!" 

With  this  preface,  the  stranger  sung  to  a  wild  yet  jovial  air, 
with  a  tolerable  voice,  tke  following  effusion : 

THE  LOVE  OF  OUR  PROFESSION  ;  OR,  THE  ROBBER'S  LIFE, 

"  On  the  stream  of  the  world,  the  robber's  life 

Is  borne  on  the  blithest  wave  ; 
Now  it  bounds  into  light  in  a  gladsome  strife, 
Now  it  laughs  in  its  hiding  cave. 

At  his  maiden's  lattice  he  stays  the  rein, 

How  still  is  his  courser  proud  ! 
(But  still  as  a  wind  when  it  hangs  o'er  the  main 

In  the  breast  of  the  boding  cloud) — 

With  the  champed  bit  and  the  arched  crest, 

And  the  eye  of  a  listening  deer, 
Like  valor,  fretful  most  in  rest, 

Least  chaf'd  when  in  career. 

Fit  slave  to  a  lord  whom  all  else  refuse 

To  save  at  his  desperate  need  ; 
By  my  troth  !  I  think  one  whom  the  world  pursues 

Hath  a  right  to  a  gallant  steed. 

'  Away,  my  beloved,  I  hear  their  feet ! 

I  blow  thee  a  kiss,  my  fair, 
And  I  promise  to  bring  thee,  when  next  we  meet, 

A  braid  for  thy  bonny  hair. 

'  Hurra  !  for  the  booty  !  —  my  steed,  hurra  ! 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brake,  go  we  ; 
And  the  coy  moon  smiles  on  our  merry  way, 

Like  my  own  love  —  timidly.' 

The  parson  he  rides  with  a  jingling  pouch, 

How  it  blabs  of  the  rifled  poor  ! 
The  courtier  he  lolls  in  his  gilded  coach, 

How  it  smacks  of  a  sinecure  ! 

The  lawyer  revolves  in  his  whirling  chaise 

Sweet  thoughts  of  a  mischief  done  ; 
And  the  lady  that  knoweth  the  card  she  plays 

Is  counting  her  guineas  won  ! 

'  Ho,  lady  !  — What,  holla,  ye  sinless  men  ? 

My  claim  ye  can  scarce  refuse  ; 
For  when  honest  folk  live  on  their  neighbors,  then 

They  encroach  on  the  robber's  dues  ! ' 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  123 

The  lady  changed  cheek  like  a  bashful  maid, 

The  lawyer  talk'd  wondrous  fair, 
The  parson  blasphemed,  and  the  courtier  pray'd, 

And  the  robber  bore  off  his  share. 

'  Hurra  !  for  the  revel  !  my  steed,  hurra ; 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brake,  go  we  ! 
It  is  ever  a  virtue,  when  others  pay, 
To  ruffle  it  merrily  ! ' 

Oh  !  there  never  was  life  like  the  robber's  —  so 

Jolly,  and  bold,  and  free  ; 
And  its  end — why,  a  cheer  from  the  crowd  below, 

And  a  leap  from  a  leafless  tree  !  " 

This  very  moral  lay  being  ended,  Mrs.  Slopperton  declared 
it  was  excellent  though  she  confessed  she  thought  the  senti- 
ments rather  loose.  Perhaps  the  gentleman  might  be  induced 
to  favor  them  with  a  song  of  a  more  refined  and  modern  turn — 
something  sentimental,  in  short.  Glancing  towards  Lucy  the 
stranger  answered  that  he  only  knew  one  song  of  the  kind  Mrs. 
Slopperton  specified,  and  it  was  so  short  that  he  could  scarcely 
weary  her  patience  by  granting  her  request. 

At  this  moment  the  river,  whch  was  easily  descried  from  the 
windows  of  the  room,  glimmered  in  the  star-light,  and  directing 
his  looks  towards  the  water,  as  if  the  scene  had  suggested  to 
him  the  verses  he  sung,  he  gave  the  following  stanzas  in  a  very 
low,  sweet  tone,  and  with  a  far  purer  taste  than,  perhaps 
would  have  suited  the  preceding  and  ruder  song. 

THE  WISH. 

"As  sleeps  the  dreaming  Eve  below, 
Its  holiest  star  keeps  ward  above, 
And  yonder  wave  begins  to  glow, 

Like  Friendship  bright'ning  into  Love  ! 

Ah  !  would  thy  bosom  were  that  stream, 

Ne'er  woo'd  save  by  the  virgin  air  !  — 
Ah  !  would  that  I  were  that  star,  whose  beam 

Looks  down  and  finds  its  image  there  !  " 

Scarcely  was  the  song  ended  before  the  arrival  of  Miss  Bran- 
don's servant  was  announced,  and  her  destined  escort,  starting 
up,  gallantly  assisted  her  with  her  cloak  and  her  hood — happy, 
no  doubt,  to  escape,  in  some  measure,  the  overwhelming  com- 
pliments of  his  entertainers. 

"But,"  said  the  doctor,  as  he  shook  hands  with  his  deliv- 
erer, "by  what  name  shall  I  remember  and" — (lifting  his  rev- 
erend eyes) — "pray  for  the  gentleman  to  whom  I  am  so  much 
indebted?" 


124  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

""You  are  very  kind,"  said  the  stranger;  "my  name  is  Clif- 
ford. Madam"  (turning  to  Lucy),  "may  I  offer  my  hand 
down  the  stairs?" 

Lucy  accepted  the  courtesy,  and  the  stranger  was  half-way 
down  the  staircase,  when  the  doctor,  stretching  out  his  little 
neck,  exclaimed: 

"Good-evening,  sir!     I  do  hope  we  shall  meet  again." 

"Fear  not,"  said  Mr.  Clifford,  laughing  gayly,  "I  am  too 
great  a  traveller  to  make  that  hope  a  matter  of  impossibility. 
Take  care,  madam — one  step  more. ' ' 

The  night  was  calm  and  tolerably  clear,  though  the  moon 
had  not  yet  risen,  as  Lucy  and  her  companion  passed  through 
the  fields,  with  the  servant  preceding  them  at  a  little  distance 
with  the  lantern. 

After  a  pause  of  some  length  Clifford  said,  with  a  little  hesi- 
tation, "Is  Miss  Brandon  related  to  the  celebrated  barrister  of 
her  name?" 

"He  is  my  uncle,"  said  Lucy;   4ido  you  know  him?" 

"Only  your  uncle?"  said  Clifford,  with  vivacity,  and  evad- 
ing Lucy's  question.  "I  feared — hem!  hem! — that  is,  I 
thought  he  might  have  been  a  nearer  relation."  There  was 
another,  but  a  shorter  pause,  when  Clifford  resumed,  in  a  low 
voice,  "Will  Miss  Brandon  think  me  very  presumptuous  if  I 
say  that  a  countenance  like  hers,  once  seen,  can  never  be  for- 
gotten; and  I  believe,  some  years  since,  I  had  the  honor  to  see 
her  in  London  at  the  theatre?  It  was  but  a  momentary  and 
distant  glance  I  was  then  enabled  to  gain ;  and  yet,"  he  added, 
significantly,  "it  sufficed!" 

"I  was  only  once  at  the  theatre  while  in  London,  some  years 
ago,"  said  Lucy,  a  little  embarassed;  "and,  indeed,  an  un- 
pleasant occurrence  which  happened  to  my  uncle,  with  whom 
I  was,  is  sufficient  to  make  me  remember  it." 

"Ha!   and  what  was  it?" 

"Why,  in  going  out  of  the  play-house,  his  watch  was  stolen 
by  some  dexterous  pickpocket." 

"Was  the  rogue  caught?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"Yes;  and  was  sent  the  next  day  to  Bridewell.  My  uncle 
said  he  was  extremely  young,  and  yet  quite  hardened.  I 
remember  that  I  was  foolish  enough,  when  I  heard  of  his  sen- 
tence, to  beg  very  hard  that  my  uncle  would  intercede  for  him  ; 
but  in  vain." 

"Did  you,  indeed,  intercede  for  him?"  sa'id  the  stranger,  in 
so  earnest  a  tone  that  Lucy  colored  for  the  twentieth  time  that 
night,  without  seeing  any  necessity  for  the  blush.  Clifford 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  125 

continued  in  a  gayer  tone,  "Well,  it  is  surprising  how  rogues 
hang  together.  I  should  not  be  greatly  surprised  if  the  person 
who  despoiled  your  uncle  were  one  of  the  same  gang  as  the  ras- 
cal who  so  terrified  your  worthy  friend  the  doctor.  But  is  this 
handsome  old  place  your  home?" 

"This  is  my  home,"  answered  Lucy;  "but  it  is  an  old-fash- 
ioned, strange  place;  and  few  people,  to  whom  it  was  not  en- 
deared by  associations,  would  think  it  handsome." 

"Pardon  me!"  said  Lucy's  companion,  stopping  and  survey- 
ing, with  a  look  of  great  interest,  the  quaint  pile,  which  now 
stood  close  before  them ;  its  dark  bricks,  gable-ends,  and  ivied 
walls,  tinged  by  the  starry  light  of  the  skies,  and  contrasted  by 
the  river,  which  rolled  in  silence  below.  The  shutters  to  the 
large  oriel  window  of  the  room,  in  which  the  squire  usually  sat, 
were  still  unclosed,  and  the  steady  and  warm  light  of  the  apart- 
ment shone  forth,  casting  a  glow,  even  to  the  smooth  waters  of 
the  river :  at  the  same  moment,  too,  the  friendly  bark  of  the 
house-dog  was  heard,  as  in  welcome ;  and  was  followed  by  the 
note  of  the  great  bell,  announcing  the  hour  for  the  last  meal 
of  the  old-fashioned  and  hospitable  family. 

"There  is  a  pleasure  in  this!"  said  the  stranger  uncon- 
sciously, and  with  a  half-sigh:  "I  wish  I  had  a  home!" 

"And  have  you  not  a  home?"  said  Lucy,  with  naivete. 

"As  much  as  a  bachelor  can  have,  perhaps,"  answered  Clif- 
ford, recovering  without  an  effort  his  gayety  and  self-posses- 
sion. "But  you  know  we  wanderers  are  not  allowed  the  same 
boast  as  the  more  fortunate  Benedicts;  we  send  our  hearts  in 
search  of  a  home,  and  we  lose  the  one  without  gaining  the 
other.  But  I  keep  you  in  the  cold,  and  we  are  now  at  your 
door." 

"You  will  come  in,  of  course!"  said  Miss  Brandon,  "and 
partake  of  our  evening  cheer." 

The  stranger  hesitated  for  an  instant,  and  then  said  in  a 
quick  tone : 

"No!  many — many  thanks;  it  is  already  late.  Will  Miss 
Brandon  accept  my  gratitude  for  her  condescension  in  permit- 
ting the  attendance  of  one  unknown  to  her?"  As  he  thus 
spoke,  Clifford  bowed  profoundly  over  the  hand  of  his  beautiful 
charge ;  and  Lucy,  wishing  him  good-night,  hastened,  with  a 
light  step,  to  her  father's  side. 

Meanwhile  Clifford,  after  lingering  a  minute,  when  the  door 
was  closed  on  him,  turned  abruptly  away  and,  muttering  to 
himself,  repaired  with  rapid  steps  to  whatever  object  he  had 
then  in  view. 


126  PAUL    CLIFFORD 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"Up  rouse  ye,  then, 
My  merry,  merry  men  !  " — JOANNA  BAILL1E. 

WHEN  the  moon  rose  that  night  there  was  one  spot  upon 
which  she  palely  broke,  about  ten  miles  distant  from  Warlock, 
which  the  forewarned  traveller  would  not  have  been  eager  to 
pass,  but  which  might  not  have  afforded  a  bad  study  to  such 
artists  as  have  caught  from  the  savage  painter  of  the  Apen- 
nines a  love  for  the  wild  and  the  adventurous.  Dark  trees, 
scattered  far  and  wide  over  a  broken,  but  verdant  sward,  made 
the  background ;  the  moon  shimmered  through  the  boughs  as 
she  came  slowly  forth  from  her  pavilion  of  cloud,  and  poured 
a  broader  beam  on  two  figures  just  advanced  beyond  the  trees. 
More  plainly  brought  into  light  by  her  rays  than  his  compan- 
ion, here  a  horseman,  clad  in  a  short  cloak  that  barely  covered 
the  crupper  of  his  steed,  was  looking  to  the  priming  of  a  large 
pistol  which  he  had  just  taken  from  his  holster.  A  slouched 
hat,  and  a  mask  of  black  crape,  conspired  with  the  action  to 
throw  a  natural  suspicion  on  the  intentions  of  the  rider.  His 
horse,  a  beautiful  dark  gray,  stood  quite  motionless,  with 
arched  neck,  and  its  short  ears  quickly  moving  to  and  fro, 
demonstrative  of  that  sagacious  and  anticipative  attention  which 
characterizes  the  noblest  of  all  tamed  animals :  you  would  not 
have  perceived  the  impatience  of  the  steed  but  for  the  white 
foam  that  gathered  round  the  bit,  and  for  an  occasional  and 
unfrequent  toss  of  the  head.  Behind  this  horseman,  and  par- 
tially thrown  into  the  dark  shadow  of  the  trees,  another  man, 
similarly  clad,  was  busied  in  tightening  the  girths  of  a  horse 
of  great  strength  and  size.  As  he  did  so  he  hummed,  with  no 
unmusical  murmur,  the  air  of  a  popular  drinking  song. 

'"Sdeath,  Ned!"  said  his  comrade,  who  had  for  some  time 
been  plunged  in  a  silent  revery;  '"'Sdeath!  why  can  you  not 
stifle  your  love  for  the  fine  arts  at  a  moment  like  this?  That 
hum  of  thine  grows  louder  every  moment,  at  last  I  expect  it 
will  burst  out  into  a  full  roar;  recollect  we  are  not  at  Gentle- 
man George's  now!" 

"The  more's  the  pity,  Augustus,"  answered  Ned.  "Soho, 
Little  John;  woaho,  sir!  a  nice  long  night  like  this  is  made  on 
purpose  for  drinking.  Will  you  sir?  keep  still  then!" 

'  'Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest,'  "  said  the  moralizing 
Tomlinson ;  "you  see  you  sigh  for  other  scenes  even  when  you 
have  a  fine  night  and  the  chance  of  a  God-send  before  you." 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  I2"J 

"Ay,  the  night  is  fine  enough,"  said  Ned,  who  was  rather  a 
grumbler,  as,  having  finished  his  groom-like  operation,  he  now 
slowly  mounted.  "D — n  it,  Oliver*  looks  out  as  broadly  as 
if  he  were  going  to  blab.  For  my  part,  I  love  a  dark  night, 
with  a  star  here  and  there  winking  at  us,  as  much  as  to  say,  'I 
see  you,  my  boys,  but  I  won't  say  a  word  about  it,'  and  a  small 
pattering,  drizzling,  mizzling  rain  that  prevents  Little  John's 
hoofs  being  heard,  and  covers  one's  retreat,  as  it  were.  Be- 
sides, when  one  is  a  little  wet,  it  is  always  necessary  to  drink 
the  more,  to  keep  the  cold  from  one's  stomach  when  one  gets 
home." 

"Or  in  other  words,"  said  Augustus,  who  loved  a  maxim 
from  his  very  heart,  "light  wet  cherishes  heavy  wet!" 

"Good!"  said  Ned,  yawning.  "Hang  it,  I  wish  the  cap- 
tain would  come.  Do  you  know  what  o'clock  it  is?  Not  far 
short  of  eleven,  I  suppose?" 

"About  that!  Hist,  is  that  a  carriage — no — it  is  only  a  sud- 
den rise  in  the  wind." 

"Very  self-sufficient  in  Mr.  Wind  to  allow  himself  to  be 
raised  without  our  help!"  said  Ned:  "by  the  way,  we  are  of 
course  to  go  back  to  the  Red  Cave." 

"So  Captain  Lovett  says.  Tell  me,  Ned,  what  do  you  think 
of  the  new  tenant  Lovett  has  put  into  the  cave?" 

"Oh,  I  have  strange  doubts  there,"  answered  Ned,  shaking 
the  hairy  honors  of  his  head.  "I  don't  half  like  it;  consider, 
the  cave  is  our  stronghold,  and  ought  only  to  be  known — " 

"To  men  of  tried  virtue,"  interrupted  Tomlinson.  "I  agree 
with  you;  I  must  try  and  get  Lovett  to  discard  his  singular 
protigt,  as  the  French  say. ' ' 

"  'Gad,  Augustus,  how  came  you  by  so  much  learning?  You 
know  all  the  poets  by  heart,  to  say  nothing  of  Latin  and 
French." 

"Oh,  hang  it,  I  was  brought  up,  like  the  captain,  to  a  literary 
way  of  life." 

"That's  what  makes  you  so  thick  with  him,  I  suppose.  He 
writes  (and  sings  too)  a  tolerable  song,  and  is  certainly  a 
deuced  clever  fellow.  What  a  rise  in  the  world  he  has  made! 
Do  you  recollect  what  a  poor  sort  of  way  he  was  in  when  you 
introduced  him  at  Gentleman  George's?  and  now  he's  the 
Captain  Crank  of  the  gang." 

"The  gang!  the  company  you  mean.  Gang,  indeed!  one 
would  think  you  were  speaking  of  a  knot  of  pickpockets.  Yes 
Lovett  is  a  clever  fellow ;  and  thanks  to  me,  a  very  decent 

*  The  moon. 


128  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

philosopher!"  It  is  impossible  to  convey  to  our  reader  the 
grave  air  of  importance  with  which  Tomlinson  made  his  con- 
cluding laudation.  "Yes,"  said  he  after  a  pause,  "he  has  a 
bold,  plain  way  of  viewing  things,  and,  like  Voltaire,  he  be- 
comes a  philosopher  by  being  a  Man  of  Sense!  Hist!  see  my 
horse's  ears!  some  one  is  coming,  though  I  don't  hear  him! 
Keep  watch ! ' ' 

The  robbers  grew  silent,  the  sound  of  distant  hoofs  was  in- 
distinctly heard,  and,  as  it  came  nearer,  there  was  a  crash  of 
boughs,  as  if  a  hedge  had  been  ridden  through ;  presently  the 
moon  gleamed  picturesquely  on  the  figure  of  a  horseman,  ap- 
proaching through  the  copse  in  the  rear  of  the  robbers.  Now 
he  was  half  seen  among  the  sinuosities  of  his  forest  path ;  now 
in  full  sight,  now  altogether  hid ;  then  his  horse  neighed  impa- 
tiently ;  now  he  again  came  in  sight,  and  in  a  moment  more  he 
had  joined  the  pair !  The  new  comer  was  of  a  tall  and  sinewy 
frame,  and  in  the  first  bloom  of  manhood.  A  frock  of  dark 
green,  edged  with  a  narrow  silver  lace  and  buttoned  from  the 
throat  to  the  middle,  gave  due  effect  to  an  upright  mien,  a 
broad  chest,  and  a  slender,  but  rounded  waist,  that  stood  in 
no  need  of  the  compression  of  the  tailor.  A  short  riding- 
cloak,  clasped  across  the  throat  with  a  silver  buckle,  hung 
picturesquely  over  one  shoulder,  while  his  lower  limbs 
were  cased  in  military  boots,  which,  though  they  rose  above 
the  knee,  were  evidently  neither  heavy  nor  embarrassing  to  the 
vigorous  sinews  of  the  horseman.  The  caparisons  of  the 
steed — the  bit,  the  bridle,  the  saddle,  the  holster — were  accord- 
ing to  the  most  approved  fashion  of  the  day ;  and  the  steed 
itself  was  in  the  highest  condition  and  of  remarkable  beauty. 
The  horseman's  air  was  erect  and  bold ;  a  small  but  coal-black 
mustachio  heightened  the  resolute  expression  of  his  short, 
curved  lip ;  and  from  beneath  the  large  hat  which  overhung  his 
brow,  his  long  locks  escaped,  and  waved  darkly  in  the  keen 
night  air.  Altogether,  horseman  and  horse  exhibited  a  gallant 
and  even  a  chivalrous  appearance,  which  the  hour  and  the 
scene  heightened  to  a  dramatic  and  romantic  effect. 

"Ha!  Lovett." 

"How  are  you,  my  merry  men?"  were  the  salutations  ex- 
changed. 

"What  news?"    said  Ned. 

"Brave  news!  look  to  it.  My  lord  and  his  carriage  will  be 
by  in  ten  minutes  at  most." 

"Have  you  got  anything  more  out  of  the  parson  I  frightened 
so  gloriously?"  asked  Augustus. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  129 

"No;  more  of  that  hereafter.     Now  for  our  new  prey!" 

"Are  you  sure  our  noble  friend  will  be  soon  at  hand?"  said 
Tomlinson  patting  his  steed,  that  now  pawed  in  excited  hi- 
larity. 

"Sure!  I  saw  him  change  horses;  I  was  in  the  stable-yard 
at  the  time ;  he  got  out  for  half  an  hour,  to  eat,  I  fancy ;  be 
sure  that  I  played  him  a  trick  in  the  meanwhile." 

"What  force?"  asked  Ned. 

"Self  and  servant." 

"The  post-boys?" 

"Ay,  I  forgot  them.  Never  mind,  you  must  frighten 
them." 

"Forwards!"  cried  Ned,  and  his  horse  sprang  from  his 
armed  heel. 

"One  moment,"  said  Lovett;  "I  must  put  on  my  mask — 
soho — Robin,  soho!  Now  for  it — forwards!" 

As  the  trees  rapidly  disappeared  behind  them,  the  riders  en- 
tered, at  a  hand  gallop,  on  a  broad  tract  of  waste  land  inter- 
spersed with  dykes,  and  occasionally  fences  of  hurdles,  over 
which  their  horses  bounded  like  quadrupeds  well  accustomed 
to  such  exploits. 

Certainly  at  that  moment,  what  with  the  fresh  air,  the  fitful 
moonlight  now  breaking  broadly  out,  now  lost  in  a  rolling 
cloud,  the  exciting  exercise,  and  that  racing  and  dancing  stit 
of  the  blood,  which  all  action,  whether  evil  or  noble  in  its  na- 
ture, raises  in  our  veins ;  what  with  all  this,  we  cannot  but  allow 
the  fascination  of  that  lawless  life — the  fascination  so  great, 
that  one  of  the  most  noted  gentlemen  highwaymen  of  the  day, 
one  too  who  had  received  an  excellent  education,  and  mixed  in 
no  inferior  society,  is  reported  to  have  said  when  the  rope  was 
about  his  neck,  and  the  good  Ordinary  was  exhorting  him  to 
repent  of  his  ill-spent  life,  "Ill-spent,  you  dog!  Gad!  (smack- 
ing his  lips)  it  was  delicious!" 

"Fie!  fie!  Mr. ,  raise  your  thoughts  to  heaven!" 

"But  a  canter  across  a  common — oh!"  muttered  the  crimi- 
nal ;  and  his  soul  cantered  off  to  eternity. 

So  briskly  leaped  the  heart  of  the  leader  of  the  three,  that, 
as  they  now  came  in  view  of  the  main  road,  and  the  distant 
wheel  of  a  carriage  whirred  on  the  ear,  he  threw  up  his  right 
hand  with  a  joyous  gesture,  and  burst  into  a  boyish  exclamation 
of  hilarity  and  delight. 

"Whist,  captain!"  said  Ned,  checking  his  own  spirits  with  a 
mock  air  of  gravity,  "let  us  conduct  ourselves  like  gentlemen ; 
it  is  only  your  low  fellows  who  get  into  such  confoundedly  high 


130  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

spirits ;  men  of  the  world  like  us  should  do  everything  as  if  their 
hearts  were  broken." 

"Melancholy*  ever  cronies  with  Sublimity,  and  Courage  is 
sublime,"  said  Augustus,  with  the  pomp  of  a  maxim-maker. 

"Now  for  the  hedge!"  cried  Lovett,  unheeding  his  com- 
rades, and  his  horse  sprang  into  the  road. 

The  three  men  now  were  drawn  up  quite  still  and  motionless 
by  the  side  of  the  hedge.  The  broad  road  lay  before  them,  curv- 
ing out  of  sight  on  either  side ;  the  ground  was  hardening  un- 
der an  early  tendency  to  frost,  and  the  clear  ring  of  approach- 
ing hoofs  sounded  on  the  ear  of  the  robbers,  ominous,  haply, 
of  the  chink  of  "more  attractive  metal"  about,  if  Hope  told 
no  flattering  tale,  to  be  their  own. 

*  A  maxim  which  would  have  pleased  Madame  de  Stael,  who  thought  that  philosophy 
consisted  in  fine  sentiments.  In  the  Life  of  Lord  Byron,  just  published  by  Mr.  Moore, 
the  distinguished  biographer  makes  a  similar  assertion  to  that  of  the  sage  Augustus : 
"  When  did  ever  a  sublime  thought  spring  up  in  the  soul  that  Melancholy  was  not  to  be 
found,  however  latent,  in  its  neighborhood  ?  Now,  with  due  deference  to  Mr.  Moore 
this  is  a  very  sickly  piece  of  nonsense,  that  has  not  even  an  atom  of  truth  to  stand  on. 


vicinity  of  that  lofty  image,  lurks  the  jaundiced  face  of  this  eternal  bete  noir  of  Mr. 
Moore  s  ?  Again,  in  that  sublimest  passage  in  the  sublimest  of  the  Latin  poets  (Lucretius), 
which  bursts  forth  in  honor  of  Epicurus,*  is  there  anything  that  speaks  to  us  of  sadness  ? 
On  the  contrary,  in  the  three  passages  we  have  referred  to,  especially  in  the  two  first 
quoted,  there  is  something  splendidly  luminous  and  cheering.  Joy  is  often  a  great  source 
of  the  sublime  ;  the  suddenness  of  its  ventings  would  alone  suffice  to  make  it  so.  What 
can  be  more  sublime  than  the  triumphant  Psalms  of  '.David,  intoxicated  as  they  are  with 
an  almost  delirium  of  transport  ?  Even  in  the  gloomiest  passages  of  the  poets,  where  we 
recognize  sublimity,  we  do  not  often  find  melancholy.  We  are  stricken  by  terror,  appalled 
by  awe,  but  seldom  softened  into  sadness.  In  fact,  Melancholy  rather  belongs  to  another 
class  of  feelings  than  those  excited  by  a  sublime  passage  or  those  which  engender  its  com- 
position. On  one  hand,  in  the  loftiest  flights  of  Homer,  Milton,  and  Shakespeare,  we  will 
challenge  a  critic  to  discover  this  "  green  sickness  "  which  Mr.  Moore  would  convert  into 
the  magnificence  of  the  plague.  On  the  other  hand,  where  is  the  evidence  that  Melancholy 
made  the  habitual  temperaments  of  those  divine  men  ?  Of  Homer  we  know  nothing  ;  of 
Shakespeare  and  Milton,  we  have  reason  to  believe  the  ordinary  temperament  was  consti- 
tutionally cheerful.  The  latter  boasts  of  it.  A  thousand  instances,  in  contradiction  to  an 
assertion  it  were  not  worth  while  to  contradict,  were  it  not  so  generally  popular,  so  highly 
sanctioned,  and  so  eminently  pernicious  to  everything  that  is  manly  and  noble  in  literature, 
rush  to  our  memory.  But  we  think  we  have  already  quoted  enough  to  disprove  the  sen- 
tence, which  the  illustrious  biographer  has  himself  disproved  in  more  than  twenty  passages, 
which,  if  he  is  pleased  to  forget,  we  thank  Heaven  posterity  never  will.  Now  we  are  on 
the  subject  of  this  Life,  so  excellent  in  many  respects,  we  can  not  but  observe  that  we 
think  the  whole  scope  of  its  philosophy  utterly  unworthy  of  the  accomplished  mind  of  the 
writer  ;  the  philosophy  consists  of  an  unpardonable  distorting  of  general  truths  to  suit  the 
peculiarities  of  an  individual,  noble  indeed,  but  proverbially  morbid  and  eccentric.  A 
striking  instance  of  this  occurs  in  the  labored  assertion  that  poets  make  but  sorry  domestic 
characters.  What !  because  Lord  Byron  is  said  to  have  been  a  bad  husband,  was  (to  jgo  no 
further  back  for  examples) — was  Walter  Scott  a  bad  husband  ?  or  was  Campbell  ?  or  is  Mr. 
Moore  himself?  Why,  in  (the  Fname  -of  justice,  should  it  be  insinuated  that  Milton  wa* 
a  bad  husband,  when,  as  far  as  any  one  can  judge  of  the  matter,  it  was  Mrs.  Milton  who 
was  the  bad  wife  ?  And  why,  oh  !  why  should  we  be  told  by  Mr.  Moore,  a  man  who,  to 
judge  by  Captain  Rock  and  the  Epicurean,  wants  neither  learning  nor  diligence— why  are 
we  to  be  told,  with  peculiar  emphasis,  that  Lord  Bacon  never  married,  when  Lord  Bacon 
not  only  married,  but  his  marriage  was  so  advantageous  as  to  be  an  absolute  epoch  in  his 
career  ?  Really,  really,  one  begins  to  beliere  that  there  is  not  such  a  thing  as  a  fact  in  the 
•  world  ! 

*  "  Primus  Graius  homo  mortaleis  tollere,  contra,"  etc. 
To  these  instances  we  might  especially  add  the  odes  of  Pindar,  Horace,  and  Campbell. 


PAUL    CLIFFURD.  131 

Presently  the  long-expected  vehicle  made  its  appearance  at 
the  turn  of  the  road,  and  it  rolled  rapidly  on  behind  four  fleet 
post-horses. 

"You,  Ned,  with  your  large  steed,  stop  the  horses;  you 
Augustus,  bully  the  post-boys;  leave  me  to  do  the  rest,"  said 
the  captain. 

"As  agreed,"  returned  Ned  laconically.  "Now,  look  at 
me!"  and  the  horse  of  the  vain  highwayman  sprang  from  its 
shelter.  So  instantaneous  were  the  operations  of  these  experi- 
enced tacticians,  that  Lovett's  orders  were  almost  executed  in  a 
briefer  time  than  it  had  cost  him  to  give  them. 

The  carriage  being  stopped,  and  the  post-boys  white  and 
trembling,  with  two  pistols  (levelled  by  Augustus  and  Pepper) 
cocked  at  their  heads,  Lovett  dismounting  threw  open  the 
door  of  the  carriage,  and  in  a  very  civil  tone,  and  with  a  very 
bland  address,  accosted  the  inmate. 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,  my  lord,  you  are  perfectly  safe;  we 
only  require  your  watch  and  purse." 

"Really,"  answered  a  voice  still  softer  than  that  of  the  rob- 
ber, while  a  marked  and  somewhat  French  countenance, 
crowned  with  a  fur  cap,  peered  forth  at  the  arrester, — "really, 
sir,  your  request  is  so  modest  that  I  were  worse  than  cruel  to 
refuse  you.  My  purse  is  not  very  full,  and  you  may  as  well 
have  it  as  one  of  my  rascally  duns;  but  my  watch  I  have  a 
love  for,  and  — " 

"I  understand  you,  my  lord,"  interrupted  the  highwayman. 
"What  do  you  value  your  watch  at?" 

"Humph;  to  you  it  may  be  worth  some  twenty  guineas." 

"Allow  me  to  see  it!" 

"Your  curiosity  is  extremely  gratifying,"  returned  the 
nobleman,  as  with  great  reluctance  he  drew  forth  a  gold  re- 
peater, set,  as  was  sometimes  the  fashion  of  that  day,  in 
precious  stones.  The  highwayman  looked  slightly  at  the 
bauble. 

"Your  lordship,"  said  he,  with  great  gravity,  "was  too 
modest  in  your  calculation  ;  your  taste  reflects  greater  credit  on 
you :  allow  me  to  assure  you  that  your  watch  is  worth  fifty 
guineas  to  us  at  the  least.  To  show  you  that  I  think  so  most 
sincerely,  I  will  either  keep  it,  and  we  will  say  no  more  on  the 
matter;  or  I  will  return  it  to  you  upon  your  word  of  honor 
that  you  will  give  me  a  check  for  fifty  guineas  payable,  by  your 
real  bankers,  to  'bearer  for  self."  Take  your  choice;  it  is 
quite  immaterial  to  me!" 

"Upon  my  honor,  sir,"  said  the  traveller,  with  some  surprise 


132  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

struggling  to  his  features,  "your  coolness  and  self-possession 
are  quite  admirable.  I  see  you  know  the  world." 

"Your  lordship  flatters  me!"  returned  Lovett,  bowing. 
"How  do  you  decide?" 

"Why,  is  it  possible  to  write  drafts  without  ink,  pen,  or 
paper?" 

Lovett  drew  back,  and  while  he  was  searching  in  his  pockets 
for  writing  implements,  which  he  always  carried  about  him, 
the  traveller  seized  the  opportunity,  and,  suddenly  snatching 
a  pistol  from  the  pocket  of  the  carriage,  levelled  it  full  at  the 
head  of  the  robber.  The  traveller  was  an  excellent  and  prac- 
ticed shot;  he  was  almost  within  arm's  length  of  his  intended 
victim ;  his  pistols  were  the  envy  of  all  his  Irish  friends.  He 
pulled  the  trigger — the  powder  flashed  in  the  pan,  and  the 
highwayman,  not  even  changing  countenance,  drew  forth  a 
small  ink-bottle,  and  placing  a  steel  pen  in  it,  handed  it  to  the 
nobleman,  saying,  with  incomparable  sang  froid,  "Would  you 
like,  my  lord,  to  try  the  other  pistol?  If  so,  oblige  me  by  a 
quick  aim,  as  you  must  see  the  necessity  of  despatch.  If  not, 
here  is  the  back  of  a  letter,  on  which  you  can  write  the 
draft." 

The  traveller  was  not  a  man  apt  to  become  embarrassed  in 
anything — save  his  circumstances:  but  he  certainly  felt  a  little 
discomposed  and  confused  as  he  took  the  paper,  and,  uttering 
some  broken  words,  wrote  the  check.  The  highwayman 
glanced  over  it,  saw  it  was  written  according  to  form,  and  then 
with  a  bow  of  cool  respect,  returned  the  watch,  and  shut  the 
door  of  the  carriage. 

Meanwhile  the  servant  had  been  shivering  in  front — boxed 
up  in  that  solitary  convenience  termed,  not  euphoniously,  a 
dickey.  Him  the  robber  now  briefly  accosted. 

"What  have  you  got  about  you  belonging  to  your  master?" 

"Only  his  pills,  your  honor!   which  I  forgot  to  put  in  the — 

"Pills!  throw  them  down  to  me!"  The  valet  tremblingly  ex- 
tracted from  his  side  pocket  a  little  box,  which  he  threw  down, 
and  Lovett  caught  in  his  hand. 

He  opened  the  box,  counted  the  pills: 

"One, — two, — four, — twelve, — Aha!"  He  reopened  the 
carriage  door. 

"Are  these  your  pills,  my  lord?" 

The  wondering  peer,  who  had  begun  to  resettle  himself  in 
the  corner  of  his  carriage,  answered  that  they  were. 

"My  lord,  I  see  you  are  in  a  high  state  of  fever;  you  were 
A  little  delirious  just  now  when  you  snapped  a  pistol  in  your 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  133 

friend's  face.     Permit  me  to  recommend  you  a  prescription — 
swallow  off  all  these  pills!" 

"My  God!"  cried  the  traveller,  startled  into  earnestness-. 
"What  do  you  mean?  twelve  of  those  pills  would  kill  a  man!" 

"Hear  him!"  said  the  robber,  appealing  to  his  comrades, 
who  roared  with  laughter.  "What,  my  lord,  would  you  rebel 
against  your  doctor?  Fie,  fie!  be  persuaded." 

And  with  a  soothing  gesture  he  stretched  the  pill-box  towards 
the  recoiling  nose  of  the  traveller.  But  though  a  man  who 
could  as  well  as  any  one  make  the  best  of  a  bad  condition,  the 
traveller  was  especially  careful  of  his  health ;  and  so  obstinate 
was  he  where  that  was  concerned,  that  he  would  rather  have 
submitted  to  the  effectual  operation  of  a  bullet  than  incurred 
the  chance  operation  of  an  extra  pill.  He,  therefore,  with 
great  indignation,  as  the  box  was  still  extended  towards  him, 
snatched  it  from  the  hand  of  the  robber,  and,  flinging  it  across 
the  road,  said,  with  dignity : 

"Do  your  worst,  rascals!  But,  if  you  leave  me  alive, 
you  shall  repent  the  outrage  you  have  offered  to  one  of  his 
Majesty's  household!"  Then,  as  if  becoming  sensible  of  the 
ridicule  of  affecting  too  much  in  his  present  situation,  he 
added  in  an  altered  tone:  "And  now,  for  Heaven's  sake,  shut 
the  door;  and  if  you  must  kill  somebody,  there's  my  servant 
on  the  box — he's  paid  for  it." 

This  speech  made  the  robbers  laugh  more  than  ever;  and 
Lovett,  who  liked  a  joke  even  better  than  a  purse,  immediately 
closed  the  carriage  door,  saying : 

"Adieu!  my  lord;  and  let  me  give  you  a  piece  of  advice; 
whenever  you  get  out  at  a  country  inn,  and  stay  half-an-hour 
while  your  horses-  are  changing,  take  your  pistols  with  you,  or 
you  may  chance  to  have  the  charge  drawn." 

With  this  admonition  the  robber  withdrew;  and  seeing  that 
the  valet  held  out  to  him  a  long  green  purse,  he  said,  gently 
shaking  his  head : 

"Rogues  should  not  prey  on  each  other,  my  good  fellow. 
You  rob  your  master — so  do  we — let  each  keep  what  he  has  got. " 

Long  Ned  and  Tomlinson  then  backing  their  horses,  the 
carriage  was  freed ;  and  away  started  the  post-boys  at  a  pace 
which  seemed  to  show  less  regard  for  life  than  the  robbers 
themselves  had  evinced. 

Meanwhile  the  captain  remounted  his  steed,  and  the  three 
confederates,  bounding  in  gallant  style  over  the  hedge  through 
which  they  had  previously  gained  the  road,  galloped  off  in  the 
same  direction  they  had  come ;  the  moon  ever  and  anon  bring- 


134  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

ing  into  light  their  flying  figures,  and  the  sound  of  many  a  joy- 
ous peal  of  laughter  ringing  through  the  distance  along  the 
frosty  air. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  What  is  here  ?— 

Gold?        *        *        * 

Thus  much  of  this  will  make  white  black — foul  fair." 

Timon  of  Athens. 
"  Came  there  a  certain  lord,  neat,  trimly  drest, 

Fresh  as  a  bridegroom." — Henry  IV, 
"  I  do  not  know  the  man  I  should  avoid 

So  soon  as  that  spare  Cassius  !     He  reads  much. 

He  is  a  great  observer  :  and  he  looks 

Quite  thiough  the  deeds  of  men. 

Often  he  smiles  ;  but  smiles  in  such  a  sort, 

As  if  he  mocked  himself  or  scorned  his  spirit, 

That  could  be  moved  to  smile  at  anything." — Julius  Ccesar 

THE  next  day,  late  at  noon,  as  Lucy  was  sitting  with  her 
father,  not  as  usual  engaged  either  in  work  or  in  reading,  but 
seemingly  quite  idle,  with  her  pretty  foot  upon  the  squire's  gouty 
stool,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  carpet,  while  her  hands  (never 
were  hands  so  soft  and  so  small  as  Lucy's,  though  they  may 
have  been  eclipsed  in  whiteness)  were  lightly  clasped  together 
and  reposed  listlessly  on  her  knees,  the  surgeon  of  the  village 
abruptly  entered  with  a  face  full  of  news  and  horror.  Old 
Squire  Brandon  was  one  of  those  persons  who  always  hear 
news,  whatever  it  may  be,  later  than  any  of  their  neighbors ; 
and  it  was  not  till  all  the  gossips  of  the  neighborhood  had 
picked  the  bone  of  the  matter  quite  bare,  that  he  was  now  in- 
formed, through  the  medium  of  Mr.  Pillum,  that  Lord  Maul- 
everer  had  on  the  preceding  night  been  stopped  by  three  high- 
waymen in  his  road  to  his  country  seat,  and  robbed  to  a  con- 
siderable amount. 

The  fame  of  the  worthy  Doctor  Slopperton's  mal-adventurc 
having,  long  ere  this,  spread  far  and  wide,  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood was  naturally  thrown  into  great  consternation.  Magis- 
trates were  sent  to,  large  dogs  borrowed,  blunderbusses 
cleaned,  and  a  subscription  made  throughout  the  parish  for  the 
raising  of  a  patrol.  There  seemed  little  doubt  but  that  the 
offenders,  in  either  case,  were  members  of  the  same  horde ; 
and  Mr.  Pillum,  in  his  own  mind,  was  perfectly  convinced  that 
they  meant  to  encroach  upon  his  trade,  and  destroy  all  the  sur- 
rounding householders  who  were  worth  the  .trouble. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  135 

The  next  week  passed  in  the  most  diligent  endeavors,  on  the 
part  of  the  neighboring  magistrates  and  yeomanry,  to  detect 
and  seize  the  robbers,  but  their  labors  were  utterly  fruitless ; 
and  one  justice  of  peace,  who  had  been  particularly  active,  was 
himself  entirely  "cleaned  out"  by  an  old  gentleman,  who, 
under  the  name  of  Mr.  Bagshot — rather  an  ominous  cogno- 
men— offered  to  conduct  the  unsuspicious  magistrate  to  the 
very  spot  where  the  miscreants  might  be  seized.  No  sooner, 
however,  had  he  drawn  the  poor  justice  away  from  his  com- 
rades into  a  lonely  part  of  the  road,  than  he  stripped  him  to 
his  shirt.  He  did  not  even  leave  his  worship  his  flannel  draw- 
ers, though  the  weather  was  as  bitter  as  the  dog  days  of  eigh- 
teen hundred  and  twenty-nine. 

"  'Tis  not  my  way,"  said  the  hoary  ruffian,  when  the  justice 
petitioned  at  least  for  the  latter  article  of  attire;  "  'tis  not  my 
way;  I  be's  slow  about  my  work,  but  I  does  it  thoroughly — 
so  off  with  your  rags,  old  'un." 

This  was,  however  the  only  additional  instance  of  aggression 
in  the  vicinity  of  Warlock  Manor-house ;  and,  by  degrees,  as  the 
autumn  declined,  and  no  farther  enormities  were  perpetrated, 
people  began  to  look  out  for  a  new  topic  of  conversation. 
This  was  afforded  them  by  a  piece  of  unexpected  good  fortune 
to  Lucy  Brandon. 

Mrs.  Warner,  an  old  lady  to  whom  she  was  slightly  related, 
and  with  whom  she  had  been  residing  during  her  brief  and 
only  visit  to  London,  died  suddenly,  and  in  her  will  declared 
Lucy  to  be  her  sole  heiress.  The  property,  which  was  in  the 
funds,  and  which  amounted  to  sixty  thousand  pounds,  was  to  be 
enjoyed  by  Miss  Brandon  immediately  on  her  attaining  her 
twenty-first  year ;  meanwhile  the  executors  to  the  will  were  to 
pay  to  the  young  heiress  the  annual  sum  of  six  hundred  pounds. 
The  joy  which  this  news  created  in  Warlock  Manor-house  may 
easily  be  conceived.  The  squire  projected  improvements 
here,  and  repairs  there ;  and  Lucy,  poor  girl,  who  had  no  idea 
of  money  for  herself,  beyond  the  purchase  of  a  new  pony,  or 
a  gown  from  London,  seconded  with  affectionate-  pleasure  all 
her  father's  suggestions,  and  delighted  herself  with  the  reflec- 
tion that  those  fine  plans,  which  were  to  make  the  Brandons 
greater  than  the  Brandons  ever  were  before,  were  to  be  realized 
by  her  own,  own  money !  It  was  at  this  identical  time  that 
the  surrounding  gentry  made  a  simultaneous  and  grand  discov- 
ery— viz.  of  the  astonishing  merits  and  great  good  sense  of  Mr. 
Joseph  Brandon.  It  was  a  pity,  they  observed,  that  he  was  of 
so  reserved  and  shy  a  turn ;  it  was  not  becoming  in  a  gentle- 


l$  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

man  of  so  ancient  a  family.  But  why  should  they  not  en- 
deavor to  draw  him  from  his  retirement  into  those  more  public 
scenes  which  he  was  doubtless  well  calculated  to  adorn? 

Accordingly,  as  soon  as  the  first  month  of  mourning  had  ex- 
pired, several  coaches,  chariots,  chaises,  and  horses,  which  had 
never  been  seen  at  Warlock  Manor-house  before,  arrived  there 
one  after  the  other  in  the  most  friendly  manner  imaginable. 
Their  owners  admired  everything;  the  house  was  such  a  fine 
relic  of  old  times! — for  their  parts  they  liked  an  oak  staircase! — 
and  those  nice  old  windows! — and  what  a  beautiful  peacock! — 
and,  Heaven  save  the  mark !  that  magnificent  chestnut-tree  was 
worth  a  forest!  Mr.  Brandon  was  requested  to  make  one  of 
the  county  hunt,  not  that  he  any  longer  hunted  himself, 
but  that  his  name  would  give  such  consequence  to  the  thing ! 
Miss  Lucy  must  come  to  pass  a  week  with  her  dear  friends 
the  Honorable  Misses  Sansterre!  Augustus,  their  brother,  had 
such  a  sweet  lady's  horse!  In  short,  the  customary  change 
which  takes  place  in  people's  characters  after  the  acquisition  of 
a  fortune,  took  place  in  the  characters  of  Mr.  and  Miss  Bran- 
don ;  and  when  people  became  suddenly  amiable,  it  is  no  won- 
der that  they  should  suddenly  gain  a  vast  accession  of  friends. 

But  Lucy,  though  she  had  seen  so  little  of  the  world,  was 
not  quite  blind ;  and  the  squire,  though  rather  obtuse,  was  not 
quite  a  fool.  If  they  were  not  rude  to  their  new  visitors,  they 
were  by  no  means  overpowered  with  gratitude  at  their  conde- 
scension. Mr.  Brandon  declined  subscribing  to  the  hunt,  and 
Miss  Lucy  laughed  in  the  face  of  the  Honorable  Augustus 
Santerre.  Among  their  new  guests,  however,  was  one  who 
to  great  knowledge  of  the  world  joined  an  extreme  and  even 
brilliant  polish  of  manners,  which  at  least  prevented  deceit 
from  being  disagreeable,  if  not  wholly  from  being  unseen :  this 
was  the  new  lieutenant  of  the  county,  Lord  Mauleverer. 

Though  possessed  of  an  immense  property  in  that  district, 
Lord  Mauleverer  had  hitherto  resided  but  little  on  his  estates. 
He  w  as  one  of  those  gay  lords  who  are  now  somewhat  uncom- 
mon in  this  country  after  mature  manhood  is  attained,  who 
live  an  easy  and  rakish  life,  rather  among  their  parasites  than 
their  equals,  and  who  yet,  by  aid  of  an  agreeable  manner, 
natural  talents,  and  certain  graceful  and  light  cultivation  of 
mind  (not  the  less  pleasant  for  its  being  universally  colored 
with  worldliness,  and  an  amusing  rather  than  offensive  regard  for 
self),  never  lose  their  legitimate  station  in  society ;  who  are 
oracles  in  dress,  equipages,  cookery,  and  beauty,  and,  hav- 
ing no  character  of  their  own,  are  able  to  fix  by  a  single  word 


fcAUL    CLIFFORD.  137 

a  character  upon  any  one  else.  Thus,  while  Mauleverer 
rather  lived  the  dissolute  life  of  a  young  nobleman  who  pre- 
fers the  company  of  agreeable  demireps  to  that  of  wearisome 
duchesses,  than  maintained  the  decorous  state  befitting  a  ma- 
ture age,  and  an  immense  interest  in  the  country,  he  was  quite 
as  popular  at  court,  where  he  held  a  situation  in  the  house- 
hold, as  he  was  in  the  green-room,  where  he  enchanted  every 
actress  on  the  right  side  of  forty.  A  word  from  him  in  the 
legitimate  quarters  of  power  went  farther  than  an  harangue 
from  another;  and  even  the  prudes, — at  least,  all  those  who 
had  daughters, — confessed  "that  his  lordship  was  a  very  inter- 
esting character."  Like  Brandon,  his  familiar  friend,  he  had 
risen  in  the  world  (from  the  Irish  baron  to  the  English  earl) 
without  having  ever  changed  his  politics,  which  were  ultra- 
Tory;  and  we  need  not  observe  that  he  was  deemed,  like 
Brandon,  a  model  of  public  integrity.  He  was  possessed  of 
two  places  under  government,  six  votes  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  eight  livings  in  the  Church ;  and  we  must  add,  in 
justice  to  his  loyal  and  religious  principles,  that  there  was  not 
in  the  three  kingdoms  a  firmer  friend  to  the  existing  establish- 
ments. 

Whenever  a  nobleman  does  not  marry,  people  try  to  take 
away  his  character.  Lord  Mauleverer  had  never  married ;  the 
Whigs  had  been  very  bitter  on  the  subject ;  they  even  alluded 
to  it  in  the  House  of  Commons, — that  chaste  assembly,  where 
the  never- failing  subject  of  reproach  against  Mr.  Pitt  was  the 
not  being  of  an  amorous  temperament ;  but  they  had  not  hitherto 
prevailed  against  the  stout  earl's  celibacy.  It  is  true,  that  if 
he  was  devoid  of  a  wife,  he  had  secured  to  himself  plenty  of 
substitutes ;  his  profession  was  that  of  a  man  of  gallantry ;  and 
though  he  avoided  the  daughters,  it  was  only  to  make  love  to 
the  mothers.  But  his  lordship  had  now  attained  a  certain  age, 
and  it  was  at  last  circulated  among  his  friends  that  he  intended 
to  look  out  for  a  Lady  Mauleverer. 

"Spare  your  caresses, "  said  his  toady-in-chief  to  a  certain 
duchess,  who  had  three  portionless  daughters:  "Mauleverer 
has  sworn  that  he  will  not  choose  among  your  order :  you  know 
his  high  politics,  and  you  will  not  wonder  at  his  declaring  him- 
self averse  in  matrimony  as  in  morals,  to  a  community  of 
goods." 

The  announcement  of  the  earl's  matrimonial  design,  and  the 
circulation  of  this  anecdote,  set  all  the  clergymen's  daughters 
in  England  on  a  blaze  of  expectation ;  and  when  Mauleverer 
came  to shire,  upon  obtaining  the  honor  of  the  lieu- 


138  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

tenancy,  to  visit  his  estates  and  court  the  friendship  of  his  neigh- 
bors, there  was  not  an  old-young  lady  of  forty,  who  worked  in 
broad-stitch  and  had  never  been  to  London  above  a  week  at  a 
time,  who  did  not  deem  herself  exactly  the  sort  of  person  sure 
to  fascinate  his  lordship. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the  travelling  chariot  of 
this  distinguished  person,  preceded  by  two  out-riders  in  the 
earl's  undress  livery  of  dark  green,  stopped  at  the  hall  door  of 
Warlock  House.  The  squire  was  at  home,  actually  and  meta- 
phorically ;  for  he  never  dreamed  of  denying  himself  to  any 
one,  gentle  or  simple.  The  door  of  the  carriage  being  opened, 
there  descended  a  small  slight  man,  richly  dressed  (for  lace  and 
silk  vestments  were  not  then  quite  discarded,  though  gradually 
growing  less  the  mode),  and  of  an  air  prepossessing,  and  dis- 
tinguished^ rather  than  dignified.  His  years — for  his  counte- 
nance, though  handsome,  was  deeply  marked,  and  evinced  the 
tokens  of  dissipation — seemed  more  numerous  than  they  really 
were ;  and,  though  not  actually  past  middle  age,  Lord  Maul- 
everer  might  fairly  have  received  the  unpleasing  epithet  of 
elderly.  However,  his  step  was  firm,  his  gait  upright,  and  his 
figure  was  considerably  more  youthful  than  his  physiognomy. 
The  first  compliments  of  the  day  having  passed,  and  Lord 
Mauleverer  having  expressed  his  concern  that  his  long  and  fre- 
quent absence  from  that  county  had  hitherto  prevented  his 
making  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Brandon,  the  brother  of  one 
of  his  oldest  and  most  esteemed  friends,  conversation  became 
on  both  sides  rather  an  effort;  Mr.  Brandon  first  introduced 
the  subject  of  the  weather,  and  the  turnips;  inquired  whether 
his  lordship  was  not  very  fond — (for  his  part  he  used  to  be, 
but  lately  the  rheumatism  had  disabled  him,  he  hoped  his  lord- 
ship was  not  subject  to  that  complaint] — of  shooting  ! 

Catching  only  the  last  words, — for,  besides  the  awful  com- 
plexity of  the  squire's  sentences,  Mauleverer  was  slightly 
afflicted  by  the  aristocratic  complaint  of  deafness, — the  earl 
answered  with  a  smile: 

"The  complaint  of  shooting!  Very  good  indeed,  Mr.  Bran- 
don ;  it  is  seldom  that  I  have  heard  so  witty  a  phrase.  No,  I 
am  not  in  the  least  troubled  with  that  epidemic.  It  is  a  disor- 
der very  prevalent  in  this  country." 

"My  lord!"  said  the  squire,  rather  puzzled;  and  then  ob- 
serving that  Mauleverer  did  not  continue,  he  thought  it  expe- 
dient to  start  another  subject. 

"I  was  exceedingly  grieved  to  hear  that  your  lordship,  in 
travelling  to  Mauleverer  Park — (that  is  a  very  ugly  road  across 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  139 

the  waste  land ;  the  roads  in  this  county  are  in  general  pretty 
good — for  my  own  part,  when  I  was  a  magistrate  I  was  very 
strict  in  that  respect) — was  robbed.  You  have  not  yet,  I 
believe,  detected — (for  my  part,  though  I  do  not  profess  to  be 
much  of  a  politician,  I  do  think  that  in  affairs  of  robbery  there 
is  a  great  deal  of  remissness  in  the  ministers) — the  villains  !  " 

"Our  friend  is  disaffected!"  thought  the  lord-lieutenant, 
imagining  that  the  last  opprobrious  term  was  applied  to  the  re- 
spectable personages  specified  in  the  parenthesis.  Bowing  with 
a  polished  smile  to  the  squire,  Mauleverer  replied  aloud,  that  he 
was  extremely  sorry  that  their  conduct  (meaning  the  ministers) 
did  not  meet  with  Mr.  Brandon's  approbation. 

"Well,"  thought  the  squire,  "that  is  playing  the  courtier 
with  a  vengeance!"  "Meet  with  my  approbation!"  said  he 
warmly:  "how  could  your  lordship  think  me — (for  though  I 
am  none  of  your  saints,  I  am,  I  hope,  a  good  Christian;  an 
excellent  one  judging  from  your  words,  your  lordship  must 
be  /)  so  partial  to  crime  !  " 

"7  partial  to  crime!"  returned  Mauleverer,  thinking  he  had 
stumbled  unawares  on  some  outrageous  democrat,  yet  smiling 
as  softly  as  usual;  "you  judge  me  harshly,  Mr.  Brandon!  you 
must  do  me  more  .justice,  and  you  can  only  do  that  by  know- 
ing me  better." 

Whatever  unlucky  answer  the  squire  might  otherwise  have 
made,  was  cut  off  by  the  entrance  of  Lucy;  and  the  earl 
secretly  delighted  at  the  interruption,  rose  to  render  her  his 
homage,  and  to  remind  her  of  the  introduction  he  had  formerly 
been  so  happy  as  to  obtain  to  her  through  the  friendship  of  Mr. 
Wrilliam  Brandon, — "a  friendship,"  said  the  gallant  nobleman, 
"to  which  I  have  often  before  been  indebted,  but  which  was 
never  more  agreeably  exerted  on  my  behalf." 

Upon  this  Lucy,  who,  though  she  had  been  so  painfully 
bashful  during  her  meetings  with  Mr.  Clifford,  felt  no  over- 
powering diffidence  in  the  presence  of  so  much  greater  a  per- 
son, replied  laughingly,  and  the  earl  rejoined  by  a  second  com- 
pliment. Conversation  was  now  no  longer  an  effort;  and 
Mauleverer,  the  most  consummate  of  epicures,  whom  even  roy- 
alty trembled  to  ask  without  preparation,  on  being  invited  by 
*He  unconscious  squire  to  partake  of  the  family  dinner,  eagerly 
accepted  the  invitation.  It  was  long  since  the  knightly  walls 
cf  Warlock  had  been  honored  by  the  presence  of  a  guest  so 
courtly.  The  good  squire  heaped  his  plate  with  a  profusion  of 
soiled  beef;  and  while  the  poor  earl  was  contemplating  in  dis- 
may the  alps  upon  alps  which  he  was  expected  to  devour,  the 


140  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

gray-headed  butler,  anxious  to  serve  him  with  alacrity, 
whipped  away  the  overloaded  plate,  and  presently  returned  it, 
yet  more  astoundingly  surcharged  with  an  additional  world  of 
a  composition  of  stony  color  and  sudorific  aspect,  which,  after 
examining  in  mute  attention  for  some  moments,  and  carefully 
removing  as  well  as  he  was  able,  to  the  extreme  edge  of  his 
plate,  the  earl  discovered  to  be  suet  pudding. 

"You  eat  nothing,  my  lord,"  cried  the  squire;  "let  me  give 
you  (this  is  more  underdone;)"  holding  between  blade  and 
fork  in  middle  air  a  horrent  fragment  of  scarlet,  shaking  its 
gory  locks, — "another  slice." 

Swift  at  the  word  dropped  upon  Mauleverer's  plate  the  harpy 
finger  and  ruthless  thumb  of  the  gray-headed  butler. 

"Not  a  morsel  more,"  cried  the  earl,  struggling  with  the 
murtherous  domestic.  "My  dear  sir,  excuse  me;  I  assure  you 
I  have  never  ate  such  a  dinner  before — never!" 

"Nay,  now!"  quoth  the  squire,  expostulating,  "you  really — 
(and  this  air  is  so  keen  that  your  lordship  should  indulge  your 
appetite,  if  you  follow- the  physician's  advice)  eat  nothing  !" 

Again  Mauleverer  was  at  fault. 

"The  physicians  are  right,  Mr.  Brandon,"  said  he;  "very 
right,  and  I  am  forced  to  live  abstemiously :  indeed  I  do  not  know 
whether  if  I  were  to  exceed  at  your  hospitable  table,  and  attack 
all  that  you  would  bestow  upon  me,  I  should  ever  recover  it. 
You  would  have  to  seek  a  new  lieutenant  for  your  charming 
county,  and  on  the  tomb  of  the  last  Mauleverer  the  hypocritical 
and  unrelated  heir  would  inscribe,  'Died  of  the  visitation  of 
Beef,  John,  Earl,  etc.'  ' 

Plain  as  the  meaning  of  this  speech  might  have  seemed  to 
others,  the  squire  only  laughed  at  the  effeminate  appetite  of 
the  speaker,  and  inclined  to  think  him  an  excellent  fellow  for 
jesting  so  good-humoredly  on  his  own  physical  infirmity.  But 
Lucy  had  the  tact  of  her  sex,  and  taking  pity  on  the  earl's 
calamitous  situation,  though  she  certainly  never  guessed  at  its 
extent,  entered  with  so  much  grace  and  ease  into  the  conver- 
sation which  he  sought  to  establish  between  them,  that  Maul- 
everer's gentleman,  who  had  hitherto  been  pushed  aside  by  the 
zeal  of  the  gray-headed  butler,  found  an  opportunity,  when  the 
squire  was  laughing  and  the  butler  staring,  to  steal  away  the 
overburthened  plate  unsuspected  and  unseen. 

In  spite,  however,  of  these  evils  of  board  and  lodgment, 
Mauleverer  was  exceedingly  well  pleased  with  his  visit ;  nor  did 
he  terminate  it  till  the  shades  of  night  had  begun  to  close,  and 
the  distance  from  his  own  residence  conspired  with  experience 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  14* 

to  remind  him  that  it  was  possible  for  a  highwayman's  audac- 
ity to  attack  the  equipage  even  of  Lord  Mauleverer.  He  then 
reluctantly  re-entered  his  carriage,  and,  bidding  the  postillions 
drive  as  fast  as  possible,  wrapped  himself  in  his  roquelaire,  and 
divided  his  thoughts  between  Lucy  Brandon  and  the  homard 
au  gratin  with  which  he  purposed  to  console  himself  immedi- 
ately on  his  return  home.  However,  Fate,  which  mocks  our 
most  cherished  hopes,  ordained  that  on  arriving  at  Mauleverer 
Park  the  owner  should  be  suddenly  afflicted  with  a  loss  of  ap- 
petite, a  coldness  in  the  limbs,  a  pain  in  the  chest,  and  various 
other  ungracious  symptoms  of  portending  malady.  Lord 
Mauleverer  went  straight  to  bed ;  he  remained  there  for  some 
days,  and  when  he  recovered  his  physicians  ordered  him  to 
Bath.  The  Whig  Methodists,  who  hated  him,  ascribed  his  ill- 
ness to  Providence ;  and  his  lordship  was  firmly  of  opinion  that 
it  should  be  ascribed  to  the  beef  and  pudding.  However  this 
be,  there  was  an  end,  for  the  present,  to  the  hopes  of  young 
ladies  of  forty,  and  to  the  intended  festivities  at  Mauleverer 
Park.  "Good  Heavens!"  said  the  Earl,  as  his  carriage  wheels 
turned  from  his  gates,  "what  a  loss  to  country  tradesmen  may 
be  occasioned  by  a  piece  of  underdone  beef,  especially  if  it  be 
boiled!" 

About  a  fortnight  had  elapsed  since  Mauleverer 's  meteoric 
visit  to  Warlock  House,  when  the  Squire  received  from  his 
brother  the  following  epistle : 

"Mv  DEAR  JOSEPH: 

"You  know  my  numerous  avocations,  and,  amid  the  press  of 
business  which  surrounds  me,  will,  I  am  sure,  forgive  me  for 
being  a  very  negligent  and  remiss  correspondent.  Neverthe- 
less, I  assure  you,  no  one  can  more  sincerely  sympathize  in 
that  good  fortune  which  has  befallen  my  charming  niece,  and 
of  which  your  last  letter  informed  me,  than  I  do.  Pray  give 
my  best  love  to  her,  and  tell  her  how  complacently  I  look 
forward  to  the  brilliant  sensation  she  will  create,  when  her 
beauty  is  enthroned  upon  that  rank  which,  I  am  quite  sure,  it 
will  one  day  or  other  command. 

"You  are  not  aware,  perhaps,  my  dear  Joseph,  that  I  have 
for  some  time  been  in  a  very  weak  and  declining  state  of  health. 
The  old  nervous  complaint  in  my  face  has  of  late  attacked  me 
grievously,  and  the  anguish  is  sometimes  so  great  that  I  am 
scarcely  able  to  bear  it.  I  believe  the  great  demand  which  my 
profession  makes  upon  a  frame  of  body  never  strong,  and  now 
beginning  prematurely  to  feel  the  infirmities  of  time,  is  the  real 


*42  PAUL    CLIFFORD 

cause  of  my  maladies.  At  last,  however,  I  must  absolutely 
punish  my  pocket,  and  indulge  my  inclinations  by  a  short 
respite  from  toil.  The  doctors — sworn  friends,  you  know,  to 
the  lawyers,  since  they  make  common  cause  against  mankind, — 
have  peremptorily  ordered  me  to  lie  by,  and  to  try  a  short 
course  of  air,  exercise,  social  amusements,  and  the  waters  of 
Bath.  Fortunately  this  is  vacation  time,  and  I  can  afford  to 
lose  a  few  weeks  of  emolument,  in  order,  perhaps,  to  secure 
many  years  of  life.  I  purpose,  then,  early  next  week,  repair- 
ing to  that  melancholy  reservoir  of  the  gay,  where  persons 
dance  out  of  life  and  are  fiddled  across  the  Styx.  In  a  word, 
I  shall  make  one  of  the  adventurers  after  health  who  seek  the 
goddess  at  King  Bladud's  pump-room.  Will  you  and  dear 
Lucy  join  me  there?  I  ask  it  of  your  friendship,  and  I  am 
quite  sure  that  neither  of  you  will  shrink  aghast  at  the  pro- 
posal of  solacing  your  invalid  relation.  At  the  same  time  that  I 
am  recovering  health,  my  pretty  niece  will  be  avenging  Pluto,  by 
consigning  to  his  dominions  many  a  better  and  younger  hero 
in  my  stead.  And  it  will  be  a  double  pleasure  to  me  to  see  all 
the  hearts,  etc., — I  break  off,  for  what  can  I  say  on  that  subject 
which  the  little  coquette  does  not  anticipate?  It  is  high  time 
that  Lucy  should  see  the  world ;  and  though  there  are  many  at 
Bath,  above  all  places,  to  whom  the  heiress  will  be  an  object  of 
interested  attentions,  yet  there  are  also  many  in  that  crowded 
city  by  no  means  undeserving  her  notice.  What  say  you,  dear 
Joseph?  But  I  know  already;  you  will  not  refuse  to  keep 
company  with  me  in  my  little  holiday,  and  Lucy's  eyes  are 
already  sparkling  at  the  idea  of  new  bonnets,  Milsom  Street,  a 
thousand  adorers,  and  the  Pump-room. 

"Ever,  dear  Joseph, 

"Yours  affectionately, 

"WILLIAM  BRANDON. 

"P.  S. — I  find  that  rny  friend  Lord  Mauleverer  is  at  Bath; 
I  own  that  is  an  additional  reason  to  take  me  thither ;  by  a 
letter  from  him,  received  the  other  day,  I  see  that  he  has  paid 
you  a  visit,  and  he  now  raves  about  his  host  and  the  heiress. 
Ah,  Miss  Lucy,  Miss  Lucy!  are  you  going  to  conquer  him 
whom  all  London  has,  for  years  more  than  I  care  to  tell  (yet 
not  many,  for  Mauleverer  is  still  young),  assailed  in  vain? 
Answer  me!" 

This  letter  created  a  considerable  excitement  in  Warlock 
House,  The  old  squire  was  extremely  fond  of  his  brother, 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  *43 

and  grieved  to  the  heart  to  find  that  he  spoke  so  discourag- 
ingly  of  his  health.  Nor  did  the  squire  for  a  moment  hesitate 
at  accepting  the  proposal  to  join  his  distinguished  relative  at 
Bath.  Lucy  also, — who  had  for  her  uncle,  possibly  from  his 
profuse  yet  not  indelicate  flattery,  a  very  great  regard  and  in- 
terest, though  she  had  seen  but  little  of  him, — urged  the  squire 
to  lose  no  time  in  arranging  matters  for  their  departure,  so  as 
to  precede  the  barrister,  and  prepare  everything  for  his  arrival. 
The  father  and  daughter  being  thus  agreed,  there  was  little 
occasion  for  delay ;  an  answer  to  the  invalid's  letter  was  sent 
by  return  of  post,  and  on  the  fourth  day  from  their  receipt  of 
the  said  epistle  the  good  old  squire,  his  daughter,  a  country 
girl,  by  way  of  abigail,  the  gray-headed  butler,  and  two  or 
three  live  pets,  of  the  size  and  habits  most  convenient  for  trav- 
elling, were  on  their  way  to  a  city  which  at  that  time  was  gayer, 
at  least,  if  somewhat  less  splendid,  than  the  metropolis. 

On  the  second  day  of  their  arrival  at  Bath,  Brandon  (as  in 
future,  to  avoid  confusion,  we  shall  call  the  younger  brother, 
giving  to  the  elder  his  patriarchal  title  of  squire)  joined  them. 

He  was  a  man  seemingly  rather  fond  of  parade,  though  at 
heart  he  disrelished  and  despised  it.  He  came  to  their  lodg- 
ing, which  had  not  been  selected  in  the  very  best  part  of  the 
town,  in  a  carriage  and  six,  but  attended  only  by  one  favorite 
servant. 

They  found  him  in  better  looks  and  better  spirits  than  they 
had  anticipated.  Few  persons,  when  he  liked  it,  could  be 
more  agreeable  than  William  Brandon;  but  at  times  there  mixed 
with  his  conversation  a  bitter  sarcasm,  probably  a  habit  ac- 
quired in  his  profession,  or  an  occasional  tinge  of  morose  and 
haughty  sadness,  possibly  the  consequence  of  his  ill-health. 
Yet  his  disorder,  which  was  somewhat  approaching  to  that  pain- 
ful affliction  the  tic  doloureux,  though  of  fits  more  rare  in  occur- 
rence than  those  of  that  complaint  ordinarily  are,  never  seemed 
even  for  an  instant  to  operate  upon  his  mood,  whatever  that 
might  be.  That  disease  worked  unseen;  not  a  muscle  of  his 
face  appeared  to  quiver;  the  smile  never  vanished  from  his 
mouth,  the  blandness  of  his  voice  never  grew  faint  as  with  pain, 
and,  in  the  midst  of  intense  torture,  his  resolute  and  stern 
mind  conquered  every  external  indication;  nor  could  the  most 
observant  stranger  have  noted  the  moment  when  the  fit  at- 
tacked or  released  him.  There  was  something  inscrutable 
about  the  man.  You  felt  that  you  took  his  character  upon 
trust,  and  not  on  your  own  knowledge.  The  acquaintance  of 
years  would  have  left  you  equally  dark  as  to  his  vices  or  his 


144  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

virtues.  He  varied  often,  yet  in  each  variation  he  was  equally 
undiscoverable.  Was  he  performing  a  series  of  parts,  or  was  it 
the  ordinary  changes  of  a  man's  true  temperament  that  you 
beheld  in  him?  Commonly  smooth,  quiet,  attentive,  flattering 
in  social  intercourse ;  he  was  known  in  the  senate  and  courts 
of  law  for  a  cold  asperity,  and  a  caustic  venom,  scarcely 
rivalled  even  in  those  arenas  of  contention.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  bitterer  feelings  he  checked  in  private  life,  he  delighted  to 
indulge  in  public.  Yet,  even  there,  he  gave  not  way  to  mo- 
mentary petulance  or  gushing  passion;  all  seemed  with  him  sys- 
tematic sarcasm,  or  habitual  sternness.  He  outraged  no  form  of 
ceremonial,  or  of  society.  He  stung,  without  appearing  con- 
scious of  the  sting;  and  his  antagonist  writhed  not  more  be- 
neath the  torture  of  his  satire,  than  the  crushing  contempt  of 
his  self-command.  Cool,  ready,  armed  and  defended  on  all 
points,  sound  in  knowledge,  unfailing  in  observation,  equally 
consummate  in  sophistry  when  needed  by  himself,  and  instan- 
taneous in  detecting  sophistry  in  another;  scorning  no  art, 
however  painful;  begrudging  no  labor,  however  weighty;  min- 
ute in  detail,  yet  not  the  less  comprehending  the  whole  subject 
in  a  grasp ;  such  was  the  legal  and  public  character  William 
Brandon  had  established,  and  such  was  the  fame  he  joined  to 
the  unsullied  purity  of  his  moral  reputation  But  to  his  friends 
he  seemed  only  the  agreeable,  clever,  lively,  and,  if  we  may 
use  the  phrase  innocently,  the  worldly  man — never  affecting  a 
superior  sanctity,  or  an  over-anxiety  to  forms,  except  upon 
great  occasions;  and  rendering  his  austerity  of  manners  the 
more  admired,  because  he  made  it  seem  so  unaccompanied  by 
hypocrisy. 

"Well,"  said  Brandon,  as  he  sat  after  dinner  alone  with  his 
relations,  and  had  seen  the  eyes  of  his  brother  close  in  diurnal 
slumber,  "tell  me,  Miss  Lucy,  what  you  think  of  Lord  Maul- 
everer;  do  you  find  him  agreeable?" 

"Very;  too  much  so,  indeed!" 

"Too  much  so!  that  is  an  uncommon  fault,  Lucy;  unless 
you  mean  to  insinuate  that  you  find  him  too  agreeable  for  your 
peace  of  mind." 

"Oh,  no!  there  is  little  fear  of  that.  All  that  I  meant  to  ex- 
press was,  that  he  seems  to  make  it  the  sole  business  of  his  life 
to  be  agreeable ;  and  that  one  imagines  he  has  gained  that  end 
by  the  loss  of  certain  qualities  which  one  would  have  liked 
better." 

"Umph!  and  what  are  they?" 

"Truth,  sincerity,  independence,  and  honesty  of  mind." 


PAUL  CLIFFORD.  145 

"My  dear  Lucy,  it  has  been  the  professional  study  of  my 
life  to  discover  a  man's  character,  especially  as  far  as  truth  is 
concerned,  in  as  short  a  time  as  possible ;  but  you  excel  me  by 
intuition,  if  you  can  tell  whether  there  be  sincerity  in  a  cour- 
iier's  character  at  the  first  interview  you  have  with  him." 

"Nevertheless,  I  am  sure  of  my  opinion,"  said  Lucy,  laugh- 
ing; "and  I  will  tell  you  one  instance  I  observed  among  a 
hundred.  Lord  Mauleverer  is  rather  deaf,  and  he  imagined, 
in  conversation,  that  my  father  said  one  thing — it  was  upon  a 
very  trifling  subject,  the  speech  of  some  member  of  parlia- 
ment (the  lawyer  smiled) — when  in  reality  he  meant  to  say 
another.  Lord  Mauleverer,  in  the  warmest  manner  in  the 
world,  chimed  in  with  him,  appeared  thoroughly  of  his  opin- 
ion, applauded  his  sentiments,  and  wished  the  whole  country 
of  his  mind.  Suddenly  my  father  spoke;  Lord  Mauleverer 
bent  down  his  ear,  and  found  that  the  sentiments  he  had  so 
lauded  were  exactly  those  my  father  the  least  favored.  No 
sooner  did  he  make  this  discovery,  than  he  wheeled  round 
again,  dexterously  and  gracefully,  I  allow;  condemned  all  that 
he  had  before  extolled,  and  extolled  all  that  he  had  before 
abused!" 

"And  is  that  all,  Lucy?"  said  Brandon,  with  a  keener  sneer 
on  his  lip  than  the  occasion  warranted.  "Why,  that  is  what 
every  one  does ;  only  some  more  gravely  than  others.  Maul- 
everer in  society ;  I,  at  the  bar ;  the  minister  in  parliament ; 
friend  to  friend ;  lover  to  mistress ;  mistress  to  lover ;  half  of 
us  are  employed  in  saying  white  is  black,  and  the  other  half  in 
swearing  that  black  is  white.  There  is  only  one  difference, 
my  pretty  niece,  between  the  clever  man  and  the  fool;  the 
fool  says  what  is  false  while  the  colors  stare  in  his  face  and 
give  him  the  lie;  but  the  clever  man  takes,  as  it  were,  a  brush, 
and  literally  turns  the  black  into  white,  and  the  white  into 
black,  before  he  makes  the  assertion,  which  is  then  true.  The 
fool  changes,  and  is  a  liar;  the  clever  man  makes  the  colors 
change,  and  is  a  genius.  But  this  is  not  for  your  young  years 
yet,  Lucy." 

"But  I  can't  see  the  necessity  of  seeming  to  agree  with  peo- 
ple," said  Lucy  simply;  "surely  they  would  be  just  as  well 
pleased  if  you  differed  from  them  civilly  and  with  respect?" 

"No,  Lucy,"  said  Brandon,  still  sneering;  "to  be  liked,  it 
is  not  necessary  to  be  anything  but  compliant;  lie,  cheat, 
make  every  word  a  snare,  and  every  act  a  forgery — but  never 
contradict.  Agree  with  people,  and  they  make  a  couch  for 
you  in  their  hearts.  You  know  the  story  of  Dante  and  the 


146  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

buffoon.  Both  were  entertained  at  the  court  of  the  vain  ped- 
ant, who  called  himself  Prince  Scaliger;  the  former  poorly, 
the  latter  sumptuously.  'How  comes  it,'  said  the  buffoon  to 
the  poet,  'that  I  am  so  rich  and  you  so  poor?'  'I  shall  be  as 
rich  as  you,'  was  the  stinging  and  true  reply,  'whenever  I  can 
find  a  patron  as  like  myself  as  Prince  Scaliger  is  like  you!'  ' 

"Yet  my  birds,"  said  Lucy,  caressing  the  goldfinch,  which 
nestled  to  her  bosom,  "are  not  like  me,  and  I  love  them.  Nay, 
I  often  think  I  could  love  those  better  who  differ  from  me  the 
most.  I  feel  it  so  in  books,  when,  for  instance,  I  read  a  novel 
or  a  play ;  and  you,  uncle,  I  like  almost  in  proportion  to  my 
perceiving  in  myself  nothing  in  common  with  you." 

"Yet,"  said  Brandon,  "you  have  in  common  with  me  a  love 
for  old  stories  of  Sir  Hugo,  and  Sir  Rupert,  and  all  the  other 
'Sirs  '  of  our  mouldered  and  by-gone  race.  So  you  shall  sing 
me  the  ballad  about  Sir  John  de  Brandon,  and  the  dragon  he 
slew  in  the  Holy  Land.  We  will  adjourn  to  the  drawing- 
room,  not  to  disturb  your  father." 

Lucy  agreed,  took  her  uncle's  arm,  repaired  to  the  drawing- 
room,  and,  seating  herself  at  the  harpsichord,  sang  to  an  in- 
spiriting, yet  somewhat  rude  air,  the  family  ballad  her  uncle 
had  demanded. 

It  would  have  been  amusing  to  note  in  the  rigid  face  of  the 
hardened  and  habitual  man  of  peace  and  parchments,  a  certain 
enthusiasm  which  ever  and  anon  crossed  his  cheek,  as  the  verses 
of  the  ballad  rested  on  some  allusion  to  the  knightly  House  of 
Brandon,  and  its  old  renown.  It  was  an  early  prejudice, 
breaking  out  despite  of  himself — a  flash  of  character,  stricken 
from  the  hard  fossil  in  which  it  was  imbedded.  One  would  have 
supposed  that  the  silliest  of  all  prides  (for  the  pride  of  money, 
though  meaner,  is  less  senseless),  family  pride,  was  the  last 
weakness  which  at  that  time  the  callous  and  astute  lawyer 
would  have  confessed,  even  to  himself. 

"Lucy,"  said  Brandon,  as  the  song  ceased,  and  he  gazed  on 
his  beautiful  niece  with  a  certain  pride  in  his  aspect,  "I  long 
to  witness  your  first  appearance  in  the  world.  This  lodging, 
my  dear,  is  not  fit — but  pardon  me!  what  I  was  about  to  say  is 
this ;  your  father  and  yourself  are  here  at  my  invitatior  and 
in  my  house  you  must  dwell;  you  are  my  guests,  no'i  ^1^? 
host  and  hostess.  I  have,  therefore,  already  directed  my  ser- 
vant to  secure  me  a  house,  and  provide  the  necessary  establish- 
ment ;  and  I  make  no  doubt,  as  he  is  a  quick  fellow,  that 
within  three  days  all  will  be  ready.  You  must  then  be  the 
magnet  of  my  abode,  Lucy;  and,  meanwhile,  you  must  explain 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  14? 

this  to  my  brother,  and,  for  you  know  his  jealous  hospitality, 
obtain  his  acquiescence." 

"But — "began  Lucy. 

"But  me  nobuts,"  said  Brandon,  quickly,  but  with  an  affec- 
tionate tone  of  wilfulness;  "and  now,  as  I  feel  very  much 
fatigued  with  my  journey,  you  must  allow  me  to  seek  my  own 
room." 

"I  will  conduct  you  to  it  myself,"  said  Lucy,  for  she  was 
anxious  to  show  her  father's  brother  the  care  and  forethought 
which  she  had  lavished  on  her  arrangements  for  his  comfort. 
Brandon  followed  her  into  an  apartment  which  his  eye  knew  at 
a  glance  had  been  subjected  to  that  female  superintendence 
which  makes  such  uses  from  what  men  reject  as  insignificant ; 
and  he  thanked  her  with  more  than  his  usual  amenity,  for  the 
grace  which  had  presided  over,  and  the  kindness  which  had 
dictated,  her  preparations.  As  soon  as  he  was  left  alone,  he 
wheeled  his  arm-chair  near  the  clear,  bright  fire,  and  resting 
his  face  upon  his  hand,  in  the  attitude  of  a  man  who  prepares 
himself,  as  it  were,  for  the  indulgence  of  meditation,  he 
muttered : 

"Yes!  these  women  are,  first  what  Nature  makes  them,  and 
that  is  good:  next,  what  -we  make  them,  and  that  is  evil! 
Now,  could  I  persuade  myself  that  we  ought  to  be  nice  as  to 
the  use  we  put  these  poor  puppets  to,  I  should  shrink  from 
enforcing  the  destiny  whch  I  have  marked  for  this  girl.  But 
what  a  pitiful  consideration,  and  he  is  but  a  silly  player  who 
loses  his  money  for  the  sake  of  preserving  his  counters.  So 
the  young  lady  must  go  as  another  score  to  the  fortunes  of 
William  Brandon.  After  all,  who  suffers?  Not  she.  She  will 
have  wealth,  rank,  honor:  I  shall  suffer,  to  yield  so  pretty 
and  pure  a  gem  to  the  coronet  of — faugh !  How  I  despise  that 
dog!  but  how  I  could  hate,  crush,  mangle  him,  could  I  believe 
that  he  despised  me!  Could  he  do  so?  Umph!  No,  I  have 
resolved  myself,  that  is  impossible.  Well,  let  me  hope  (hat 
matrimonial  point  will  be  settled ;  and  now,  let  me  consider 
what  next  step  I  shall  take  for  myself — myself!  Ay — only  my- 
self!  With  me  perishes  the  last  male  of  Brandon.  But  the 
light  shall  not  go  out  under  a  bushel." 

As  he  said  this  the  soliloquist  sunk  into  a  more  absorbed, 
and  a  silent  revery,  from  which  he  was  disturbed  by  the  en- 
trance of  his  servant.  Brandon,  who  was  never  a  dreamer, 
save  when  alone,  broke  at  once  from  his  reflections. 

"You  have  obeyed  my  orders,  Barlow?"  said  he. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  domestic.     "I  have  taken  the  best 


148  PAUL  CLIFFORD. 

house  yet  unoccupied,  and  when  Mrs.  Roberts  (Brandon's 
housekeeper)  arrives  from  London,  everything  will,  I  trust,  be 
exactly  to  your  wishes." 

"Good!     And  you  gave  my  note  to  Lord  Mauleverer?" 

"With  my  own  hands,  sir;  his  lordship  will  await  you  at 
home  all  to-morrow." 

"Very  well!  and  now,  Barlow,  see  that  your  room  is  within 
call  (bells,  though  known,  were  not  common  at  that  day),  and 
give  out  that  I  am  gone  to  bed,  and  must  not  be  disturbed. 
What's  the  hour?" 

"Just  on  the  stroke  of  ten,  sir." 

"Place  on  that  table  my  letter-case,  and  the  inkstand.  Look 
in,  to  help  me  to  undress,  at  half-past  one ;  I  shall  go  to  bed 
at  that  hour.  And — stay — be  sure,  Barlow,  that  my  brother 
believes  me  retired  for  the  night.  He  does  not  know  my  hab- 
its, and  will  vex  himself  if  he  thinks  I  sit  up  so  late  in  my 
present  state  of  health." 

Drawing  the  table  with  its  writing  appurtenances  near  to  his 
master,  the  servant  left  Brandon  once  more  to  his  thoughts  or 
his  occupations. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Setvant.  Get  away,  I  say,  wid  dat  nasty  bell. 

Punch.  Do  you  call  this  a  bell  ?  {patting  if).     It  is  an  organ. 

Servant.  I  say  it  is  a  bell — a  nasty  bell ! 

Punch.  I  say  it  is  an  organ  (striking  him  with  it).    What  do  you  say  it  is 

now? 
Servant.  An  organ,  Mr.  Punch  ! 

—  The  Tragical  Comedy  of  Punch  and  Judy. 

THE  next  morning,  before  Lucy  and  her  father  had  left  their 
apartments,  Brandon,  who  was  a  remarkably  early  riser,  had 
disturbed  the  luxurious  Mauleverer  in  his  first  slumber.  Al- 
though the  courtier  possessed  a  villa  some  miles  from  Bath,  he 
preferred  a  lodging  in  town,  both  as  being  warmer  than  a  rarely 
inhabited  country-house,  and  as  being  to  an  indolent  man  more 
immediately  convenient  for  the  gayeties  and  the  waters  of  the 
medicinal  city. 

As  soon  as  the  Earl  had  rubbed  his  eyes,  stretched  himself, 
and  prepared  himself  for  the  untimeous  colloquy,  Brandon 
poured  forth  his  excuses  for  the  hour  he  had  chosen  for  a  visit. 

"Mention  it  not,  my  dear  Brandon,"  said  the  good-natured 
nobleman,  with  a  sigh;  "I  am  glad  at  any  hour  to  see  you, 


J'AUL   CLIFFORD.  *4<) 

and  I  am  very  sure  that  what  you  have  to  communicate  is 
always  worth  listening  to." 

"It  was  only  upon  public  business,  though  of  rather  a  more 
important  description  than  usual,  that  I  ventured  to  disturb 
you,"  answered  Brandon,  seating  himself  on  a  chair  by  the 
bedside.  "This  morning — an  hour  ago — I  received  by  private 
express  a  letter  from  London,  stating  that  a  new  arrangement 
will  positively  be  made  in  the  Cabinet ;  nay,  naming  the  very 
promotions  and  changes.  I  confess  that  as  my  name  occurred, 
as  also  your  own,  in  these  nominations,  I  was  anxious  to  have 
the  benefit  of  your  necessarily  accurate  knowledge  on  the  sub- 
ject, as  well  as  of  your  advice." 

"Really,  Brandon,"  said  Mauleverer,  with  a  half-peevish 
smile,  "any  other  hour  in  the  day  would  have  done  for  'the 
business  of  the  nation,'  as  the  newspapers  call  that  troublesome 
farce  we  go  through ;  and  I  had  imagined  you  would  not  have 
broken  my  nightly  slumbers,  except  for  something  of  real  im- 
portance— the  discovery  of  a  new  beauty,  or  the  invention  of 
a  new  dish." 

"Neither  the  one  nor  the  other  could  you  have  expected 
from  tney  my  dear  lord,"  rejoined  Brandon.  "You  know 
the  dry  trifles  in  which  a  lawyer's  life  wastes  itself  away; 
and  beauties  and  dishes  have  no  attraction  for  us,  except  the 
former  be  damsels  deserted,  and  the  latter  patents  invaded. 
But  my  news,  after  all,  is  worth  hearing,  unless  you  have 
heard  it  before." 

"Not  I!  but  I  suppose  I  shall  hear  it  in  the  course  of  the 
day :  pray  Heaven  I  be  not  sent  for  to  attend  some  plague  of 
a  council.  Begin!" 

"In  the  first  place,  Lord  Duberly  resolves  to  resign,  unless 
this  negotiation  for  peace  be  made  a  Cabinet  question." 

"Pshaw!  let  him  resign.  I  have  opposed  the  peace  so  long 
that  it  is  out  of  the  question.  Of  course,  Lord  Wanstead  will 
not  think  of  it,  and  he  may  count  on  my  boroughs.  A  peace! 
shameful,  disgraceful,  dastardly  proposition!" 

"But,  my  dear  lord,  my  letter  says,  that  this  unexpected 
firmness  on  the  part  of  Lord  Duberly  has  produced  so  great  a 
sensation,  that,  seeing  the  impossibility  of  forming  a  durable 
Cabinet  without  him,  the  King  has  consented  to  the  negotia- 
tion, and  Duberly  stays  in!" 

"The  devil!     What  next?" 

"Raff den  and  Sternhold  go  out  in  favor  of  Baldwin  and 
Charlton.  and  in  the  hope  that  you  will  lend  your  aid  to — " 

"I!"  said    Lord    Mauleverer,    very    angrily;   "I   lend    my 


150  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

aid  to  Baldwin,  the  Jacobin,  and  Charlton,  the  son  of  A 
brewer ! ' ' 

"Very  true!"  continued  Brandon.  "But  in  the  hope  that 
you  might  be  persuaded  to  regard  the  new  arrangements  with 
an  indulgent  eye,  you  are  talked  of  instead  of  the  Duke  of 
for  the  vacant  Garter  and  the  office  of  chamberlain." 

"You  don't  mean  it!"  cried  Mauleverer,  starting  from  his 
btd. 

"A  few  other  (but,  I  hear,  chiefly  legal)  promotions  are  to 
be  made.  Among  the  rest,  my  learned  brother,  the  democrat 
Sarsden,  is  to  have  a  silk  gown ;  Cromwell  is  to  be  attorney- 
general  ;  and,  between  ourselves,  they  have  offered  me  a 
judgeship. " 

"But  the  Garter!"  said  Mauleverer,  scarcely  hearing  the 
rest  of  the  lawyer's  news,  "the  whole  object,  aim,  and  ambi- 
tion of  my  life.  How  truly  kind  in  the  King!  After  all," 
continued  the  Earl,  laughing,  and  throwing  himself  back, 
"opinions  are  variable — truth  is  not  uniform — the  times 
change,  not  we — and  we  must  have  peace  instead  of  war!" 

"Your  maxims  are  indisputable,  and  the  conclusion  you 
come  to  is  excellent,"  said  Brandon. 

"Why,  you  and  I,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  Earl,  "who 
know  men,  and  who  have  lived  all  our  lives  in  the  world,  must 
laugh  behind  the  scenes  at  the  cant  we  wrap  in  tinsel,  and 
send  out  to  stalk  across  the  stage.  We  know  that  our  Corio- 
lanus  of  Tory  integrity  is  a  corporal  kept  by  a  prostitute ;  and 
the  Brutus  of  Whig  liberty  is  a  lacquey  turned  out  of  place  for 
stealing  the  spoons;  but  we  must  not  tell  this  to  the  world. 
So,  Brandon,  you  must  write  me  a  speech  for  the  next  session, 
and  be  sure  it  has  plenty  of  general  maxims,  and  concludes 
with  'my  bleeding  country!'  ' 

The  lawyer  smiled.  "You  consent  then  to  the  expulsion  ot 
Sternhold  and  Raffden?  for,  after  all,  that  is  the  question. 
Our  British  vessel,  as  the  d — d  metaphor-mongers  call  the 
State,  carries  the  public  good  safe  in  the  hold  like  brandy ; 
and  it  is  only  when  fear,  storm,  or  the  devil  makes  the 
rogues  quarrel  among  themselves,  and  break  up  the  casks, 
that  one  gets  above  a  thimbleful  at  a  time.  We  should  go  on 
fighting  with  the  rest  of  the  world  for  ever,  if  the  ministers 
had  not  taken  to  fight  among  themselves." 

"As  for  Sternhold,"  said  the  Earl,  "  'tis  a  vulgar  dog,  and 
voted  for  economical  reform.  Besides,  I  don't  know  him;  he 
may  go  to  the  devil  for  aught  I  care ;  but  Raffden  must  be 
dealt  handsomely  with,  or,  despite  the  Garter,  I  will  fall 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  15! 

back  among  the  Whigs,  who,  after  all,  give  tolerable 
dinners." 

"But  why,  my  lord,  must  Raff  den  be  treated  better  than  his 
brother  recusant?" 

"Because  he  sent  me,  in  the  handsomest  manner  possible, 
a  pipe  of  that  wonderful  Madeira,  which  you  know  I  consider 
the  chief  grace  of  my  cellars,  and  he  gave  up  a  canal  navigation 
bill,  which  would  have  enriched  his  whole  county,  when  he 
knew  that  it  would  injure  my  ^property.  No,  Brandon,  curse 
public  cant;  we  know  what  that  is.  But  we  are  gentlemen, 
and  our  private  friends  must  not  be  thrown  overboard, — un- 
less, at  least,  we  do  it  in  the  civilest  manner  we  can." 

"Fear  not,"  said  the  lawyer;  "you  have  only  to  say  the 
word,  and  the  Cabinet  can  cook  up  an  en.bassy  to  Owhyhee, 
and  send  Raff  den  there  with  a  stipend  of  five  thousand  a  year." 

"Ah!  that's  well  thought  of;  or  we  might  give  him  a  grant 
of  a  hundred  thousand  acres  in  one  of  the  colonies,  or  let  him 
buy  crown-land  at  a  discount  of  eighty  per  cent.  So  that's 
settled." 

"And  now,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Brandon,  "I  will  tell  you 
frankly  why  I  come  so  early ;  I  am  required  to  give  a  hasty 
answer  to  the  proposal  I  have  received,  namely,  of  the  judge- 
ship.  Your  opinion?" 

"A  judgeship!  you  a  judge?  What!  forsake  your  brilliant 
career  for  so  petty  a  dignity?  You  jest!" 

"Not  at  all, — listen.  You  know  how  bitterly  I  have  op- 
posed this  peace,  and  what  hot  enemies  I  have  made  among 
the  new  friends  of  the  administration :  'on  the  one  hand,  these 
enemies  insist  on  sacrificing  me;  and  on  the  other,  if  I  were  to 
stay  in  the  Lower  House  and  speak  for  what  I  have  before  op- 
posed, I  should  forfeit  the  support  of  a  great  portion  of  my  own 
party:  hated  by  one  body,  and  mistrusted  by  the  other,  a  seat 
in  the  House  of  Commons  ceases  to  be  an  object.  It  is  pro- 
posed that  I  should  retire  on  the  dignity  of  a  judge,  with  the 
positive  and  pledged,  though  secret,  promise  of  the  first  vacancy 
among  the  chiefs.  The  place  of  chief  justice  or  chief  baron  is 
indeed  the  only  fair  remuneration  for  my  surrender  of  the  gains 
of  my  profession,  and  the  abandonment  of  my  parliamentary 
and  legal  career;  the  title,  which  will  of  course  be  attached  to 
it,  might  go  (at  least,  by  an  exertion  of  interest),  to  the  eldest 
son  of  my  niece,  in  case  she  married  a  commoner:  or,"  added 
he,  after  a  pause,  "her  second  son  in  case  she  married  a 
peer." 

"Ha — true!"  said  Mauleverer  quickly,  and  as  if  struck  by 


152  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

some  sudden  thought;  "and  your  charming  niece,  Brandon 
would  be  worthy  of  any  honor  either  to  her  children  or  herself. 
You  do  not  know  how  struck  I  was  with  her;  there  is  some- 
thing so  graceful  in  her  simplicity;  and  in  .her  manner  of 
smoothing  down  the  little  rugosities  of  Warlock  House,  there 
was  so  genuine  and  so  easy  a  dignity,  that  I  declare  I  almost 
thought  myself  young  again,  and  capable  of  the  self-cheat  of 
believing  myself  in  love.  But,  oh!  Brandon,  imagine  me  at 
your  brother's  board! — me,  for. whom  ortolans  are  too  substan- 
tial, and  who  feel,  when  I  tread,  the  slightest  inequality  in  the 
carpets  of  Tournay! — imagine  me,  dear  Brandon,  in  a  black 
wainscot  room,  hung  round  with  your  ancestors  in  brown  wigs 
with  posies  in  their  button-holes,  an  immense  fire  on  one  side, 
and  a  thorough  draught  on  the  other ;  a  huge  circle  of  beef 
before  me,  smoking  like  Vesuvius,  and  twice  as  large ;  a  plate- 
ful (the  plate  was  pewter — is  there  not  a  metal  so  called?)  of 
this  mingled  flame  and  lava  set  under  my  very  nostril,  and 
upon  pain  of  ill-breeding  to  be  despatched  down  my  proper 
mouth ;  an  old  gentleman  in  fustian  breeches  and  worsted 
stockings,  by  way  of  butler,  filling  me  a  can  of  ale,  and  your 
worthy  brother  asking  me  if  I  would  not  prefer  port ;  a  lean 
footman  in  livery  (such  a  livery,  ye  gods!)  scarlet,  blue,  yellow, 
and  green,  a  rainbow  ill-made!  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
table  looking  at  the  'Lord'  with  eyes  and  mouth  equally  open, 
and  large  enough  to  swallow  me,  and  your  excellent  brother 
himself  at  the  head  of  the  table  glowing  through  the  mists  of 
the  beef,  like  the  rising  sun  in  a  sign-post — and  then,  Brandon, 
turning  from  this  image,  behold  beside  me  the  fair,  delicate, 
aristocratic,  yet  simple  loveliness  of  your  niece,  and — but  you 
look  angry — I  have  offended  you." 

It  was  high  time  for  Mauleverer  to  ask  that  question ;  for, 
during  the  whole  of  the  earl's  recital,  the  dark  face  of  his  com- 
panion had  literally  burnt  with  rage :  and  here  we  may  observe 
how  generally  selfishness,  which  makes  the  man  of  the  world, 
prevents  its  possessor,  by  a  sort  of  paradox,  from  being  con- 
summately so.  For  Mauleverer,  occupied  by  the  pleasure  he 
felt  at  his  own  wit,  and  never  having  that  magic  sympathy 
with  others  which  creates  the  incessantly  keen  observer,  had 
not,  for  a  moment,  thought  that  he  was  offending  to  the  quick 
the  hidden  pride  of  the  lawyer.  Nay,  so  little  did  he  suspect 
Brandon's  real  weaknesses,  that  he  thought  him  a  philosopher, 
who  would  have  laughed  alike  at  principles  and  people,  how- 
ever near  to  him  might  be  the  latter,  and  however  important 
the  former.  Mastering  by  a  single  effort,  which  restored  his 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  153 

cheek  to  its  usual  steady  hue,  the  outward  signs  of  his  dis- 
pleasure, Brandon  rejoined; 

"Offend  me!  by  no  means,  my  dear  lord.  I  do  not  wonder  at 
your  painful  situation  in  an  old  country  gentleman's  house, 
which  has  not  for  centuries  offered  scenes  fit  for  the  presence 
of  so  distinguished  a  guest.  Never,  I  may  say,  since  the  time 
when  Sir  Charles  de  Brandon  entertained  Elizabeth  at  Warlock ; 
and  your  ancestor  (you  know  my  old  musty  studies  on  those 
points  of  obscure  antiquity),  John  Mauleverer,  who  was  a 
noted  goldsmith  of  London,  supplied  the  plate  for  the  occa- 
sion." 

"Fairly  retorted, "said  Mauleverer,  smiling;  for  though  the 
Earl  had  a  great  contempt  for  low  birth,  set  on  high  places,  in 
other  men,  he  was  utterly  void  of  pride  in  his  own  family. 
"Fairly  retorted!  but  I  never  meant  anything  else  but  a  laugh 
at  your  brother's  housekeeping;  a  joke,  surely,  permitted  to  a 
man  whose  own  fastidiousness  on  these  matters  is  so  standing 
a  jest.  But,  by  heavens,  Brandon !  to  turn  from  these  subjects, 
your  niece  is  the  prettiest  girl  I  have  seen  for  twenty  years ; 
and  if  she  would  forget  my  being  the  descendant  of  John  Maul- 
everer, the  noted  goldsmith  of  London,  she  may  be  Lady 
Mauleverer  as  soon  as  she  pleases." 

"Nay,  now,  let  us  be  serious,  and  talk  of  the  judgeship,"  said 
Brandon,  affecting  to  treat  the  proposal  as  a  joke. 

'  'By  the  soul  of  Sir  Charles  de  Brandon,  I  am  serious ! ' '  cried 
the  Earl;  "and  as  a  proof  of  it,  I  hope  you  will  let  me  pay  my 
respects  to  your  niece  to-day ;  not  with  my  offer  in  my  hand, 
yet — for  it  must  be  a  love  match  on  both  sides. ' '  And  the 
Earl,  glancing  towards  an  opposite  glass,  which  reflected  his 
attenuated  but  comely  features,  beneath  his  velvet  night-cap 
trimmed  with  Mechlin,  laughed  half-triumphantly  as  he  spoke. 

A  sneer  just  passed  the  lips  of  Brandon,  and  as  instantly  van- 
ished ;  while  Mauleverer  continued: 

"And  as  for  the  judgeship,  dear  Brandon,  I  advise  you  to 
accept  it,  though  you  know  best ;  and  I  do  think  no  man  will 
stand  a  fairer  chance  of  the  chief -justiceship :  or,  though  it  be 
somewhat  unusual  for  'Common'  lawyers,  why  not  the  woolsack 
itself?  As  you  say,  the  second  son  of  your  niece  might  inherit 
the  dignity  of  the  peerage!" 

"Well,  I  will  consider  of  it  favorably,"  said  Brandon,  and 
soon  afterwards  he  left  the  nobleman  to  renew  his  broken  re- 
pose. 

"I  can't  laugh  at  that  man,"  said  Mauleverer  to  himself, 
as  he  turned  round  in  his  bed,  "though  he  has  much  that 


154  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

I  should  laugh  at  in  another;  and  faith,  there  is  one  little 
matter  I  might  well  scorn  him  for,  if  I  were  not  a  philosopher. 
'Tis  a  pretty  girl,  his  niece,  and  with  proper  instructions  might 
do  one  credit;  besides  she  has  £60,000.  ready  money;  and, 
faith,  I  have  not  a  shilling  for  my  own  pleasure,  though  I  have, 
or,  alas !  had,  fifty  thousand  a-year  for  that  of  my  establish- 
ment! In  all  probability  she  will  be  the  lawyer's  heiress,  and 
he  must  have  made,  at  least,  as  much  again  as  her  portion; 
nor  is  he,  poor  devil,  a  very  good  life.  Moreover,  if  he  rise  to 
the  peerage?  and  the  second  son — Well!  well!  it  will  not  be 
such  a  bad  match  for  the  goldsmith's  descendant  either!" 

With  that  thought  Lord  Mauleverer  fell  asleep.  He  rose 
about  noon,  dressed  himself  with  unusual  pains,  and  was  just 
going  forth  on  a  visit  to  Miss  Brandon,  when  he  suddenly  re- 
membered that  her  uncle  had  not  mentioned  her  address  or  his 
own.  He  referred  to  the  lawyer's  note  of  the  preceding  even- 
ing; no  direction  was  inscribed  on  it;  and  Mauleverer  was 
forced,  with  much  chagrin,  to  forego  for  that  day  the  pleasure 
he  had  promised  himself. 

In  truth  the  wary  lawyer,  who,  as  we  have  said,  despised 
show  and  outward  appearances  as  much  as  any  man,  was  yet 
sensible  of  their  effect  even  in  the  eyes  of  a  lover;  and  more- 
over, Lord  Mauleverer  was  one  whose  habits  of  life  were  cal- 
culated to  arouse  a  certain  degree  of  vigilance  on  points  of 
household  pomp,  even  in  the  most  unobservant.  Brandon 
therefore  resolved  that  Lucy  should  not  be  visited  by  her  ad- 
mirer till  the  removal  to  their  new  abode  was  effected ;  nor 
was  it  till  the  third  day  from  that  on  which  Mauleverer  had 
held  with  Brandon  the  interview  we  have  recorded,  that  the 
Earl  received  a  note  from  Brandon,  seemingly  turning  only  on 
political  matters,  but  inscribed  with  the  address  and  direction 
in  full  form. 

Mauleverer  answered  it  in  person.  He  found  Lucy  at  home, 
and  more  beautiful  than  ever ;  and  from  that  day  his  mind  was 
made  up,  as  the  mammas  say,  and  his  visits  became  constant. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  There  is  a  festival  where  knights  and  dames, 
And  aught  that  wealth  or  lofty  lineage  claims, 
Appear. 

****** 

'Tis  he — how  came  he  hence  ? — what  doth  he  here?  " — Lara. 

THERE  are  two  charming  situations  in  life  for  a  woman: 
one,  the  first  freshness  of  heiress-ship  and  beauty;  the  other, 
youthful  widowhood  with  a  large  jointure.  It  was  at  least 
Lucy's  fortune  to  enjoy  the  first.  No  sooner  was  she  fairly 
launched  into  the  gay  world  than  she  became  the  object  of 
universal  idolatry.  Crowds  followed  her  wherever  she  moved: 
nothing  was  talked  of,  or  dreamed  of,  toasted,  or  betted  on, 
feut  Lucy  Brandon  ;  even  her  simplicity,  and  utter  ignorance  of 
the  arts  of  fine  life,  enhanced  the  eclat  of  her  reputation. 
Somehow  or  other,  young  people  of  the  gentler  sex  are  rarely 
ill-bred,  even  in  their  eccentricities;  and  there  is  often  a  great 
deal  of  grace  in  inexperience.  Her  uncle,  who  accompanied 
her  everywhere,  himself  no  slight  magnet  of  attraction,  viewed 
her  success  with  a  complacent  triumph  which  he  suffered  no 
one  but  her  father  or  herself  to  detect.  To  the  smooth  cool- 
ness of  his  manner,  nothing  would  have  seemed  more  foreign 
than  pride  at  the  notice  gained  by  a  beauty,  or  exultation  at 
any  favor  won  from  the  caprices  of  fashion.  As  for  the  good 
old  squire,  one  would  have  imagined  him  far  more  the  invalid 
than  his  brother.  He  was  scarcely  ever  seen ;  for  though  he 
went  everywhere,  he  was  one  of  those  persons  who  sink  into  a 
corner  the  moment  they  enter  a  room.  Whoever  discovered 
him  in  his  retreat,  held  out  their  hands,  and  exclaimed,  "God 
bless  me!  you  here!  We  have  not  seen  you  for  this  age!" 
Now  and  then,  if  in  a  very  dark  niche  of  the  room  a  card-table 
had  been  placed,  the  worthy  gentleman  toiled  through  an  ob- 
scure rubber,  but  more  frequently  he  sat  with  his  hands 
clasped,  and  his  mouth  open,  counting  the  number  of  candles 
in  the  room,  or  calculating  "when  that  stupid  music  would  be 
over." 

Lord  Mauleverer,  though  a  polished  and  courteous  man, 
whose  great  object  was  necessarily  to  ingratiate  himself  with 
the  father  of  his  intended  bride,  had  a  horror  of  being  bored 
which  surpassed  all  other  feelings  in  his  mind.  He  could  not, 
therefore,  persuade  himself  to  submit  to  the  melancholy  duty 
of  listening  to  the  squire's  "linked  speeches  long  drawn  out." 


156  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

He  always  glided  by  the  honest  man's  station,  seemingly  in  an 
exceeding  hurry,  with  a  "Ah,  my  dear  sir,  how  do  you  do? 
How  delighted  I  am  to  see  you!  And  your  incomparable 
daughter?  Oh,  there  she  is! — pardon  me,  dear  sir — you  see 
my  attraction!" 

Lucy,  indeed,  who  never  forgot  any  one  (except  herself  oc- 
casionally), sought  her  father's  retreat  as  often  as  she  was  able ; 
but  her  engagements  were  so  incessant  that  she  no  sooner  lost 
one  partner,  than  she  was  claimed  and  carried  off  by  another. 
However,  the  squire  bore  his  solitude  with  tolerable  cheerful- 
ness, and  always  declared  that  "he  was  very  well  amused; 
although  balls  and  concerts  were  necessarily  a  little  dull  to  one 
who  came  from  a  fine  old  place  like  Warlock  Manor-house, 
and  it  was  not  the  same  thing  that  pleased  young  ladies  (for,  to 
them,  that  fiddling  and  giggling  till  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing might  be  a  very  pretty  way  of  killing  time'),  and  their 
papas  !  " 

What  considerably  added  to  Lucy's  celebrity  was  the 
marked  notice  and  admiration  of  a  man  so  high  in  rank  and 
ton  as  Lord  Mauleverer.  That  personage,  who  still  retained 
much  of  a  youthful  mind  and  temper,  and  who  was  in  his 
nature  more  careless  than  haughty,  preserved  little  or  no  state 
in  his  intercourse  with  the  social  revellers  at  Bath.  He  cared 
not  whither  he  went,  so  that  he  was  in  the  train  of  the  young 
beauty;  and  the  most  fastidious  nobleman  of  the  English 
court  was  seen  in  every  second  and  third  rate  set  of  a  great 
watering-place,  the  attendant,  the  flirt,  and  often  the  ridicule 
of  the  daughter  of  an  obscure  and  almost  insignificant  country 
squire.  Despite  the  honor  of  so  distinguished  a  lover,  and 
despite  all  the  novelties  of  her  situation,  the  pretty  head  of 
Lucy  Brandon  was  as  yet,  however,  perfectly  unturned ;  and  as 
for  her  heart,  the  only  impression  that  it  had  ever  received  was 
made  by  that  wandering  guest  of  the  village  rector,  whom  she  had 
never  again  seen,  but  who  yet  clung  to  her  imagination,  invested 
not  only  with  all  the  graces  which  in  right  of  a  singularly  hand- 
some person  he  possessed,  but  with  those  to  which  he  never 
could  advance  a  claim, — more  dangerous  to  her  peace,  from 
the  very  circumstance  of  their  origin  in  her  fancy,  not  his 
merits. 

They  had  now  been  some  little  time  at  Bath,  and  Brandon's 
Srief  respite  was  pretty  nearly  expired,  when  a  public  ball  of 
•mcommon  and  manifold  attraction  was  announced.  It  was  to 
?>e  graced  not  only  by  the  presence  of  all  the  surrounding  fam- 
ilies, but  also  by  that  of  royalty  itself;  it  being  an  acknowl- 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  157 

edged  fact  that  people  dance  much  better,  and  eat  much  more 
supper,  when  any  relation  to  a  king  is  present. 

"I  must  stay  for  this  ball,  Lucy,"  said  Brandon,  who,  after 
spending  the  day  with  Lord  Mauleverer,  returned  home  in  a 
mood  more  than  usually  cheerful:  "I  must  stay  for  this  one  ball, 
Lucy,  and  witness  your  complete  triumph,  even  though  it  will 
be  necessary  to  leave  you  the  very  next  morning." 

"So  soon!"  cried  Lucy. 

"So  soon!"  echoed  the  uncle  with  a  smile.  "How  good 
you  are  to  speak  thus  to  an  old  valetudinarian,  whose  company 
must  have  fatigued  you  to  death!  Nay,  no  pretty  denials! 
But  the  great  object  of  my  visit  to  this  place  is  accomplished:  I 
have  seen  you,  I  have  witnessed  your  debut  in  the  great  world, 
with,  I  may  say,  more  than  a  father's  exultation,  and  I  go  back 
to  my  dry  pursuits  with  the  satisfaction  of  thinking  our  old  and 
withered  genealogical  tree  has  put  forth  one  blossom  worthy  of 
its  freshest  day." 

"Uncle!"  said  Lucy,  reprovingly,  and  holding  up  her  taper 
finger  with  an  arch  smile,  mingling  with  a  blush,  in  which  the 
woman's  vanity  spoke,  unknown  to  herself. 

"And  why  that  look,  Lucy?"  said  Brandon. 

"Because — because — well,  no  matter!  You  have  been  bred 
to  that  trade  in  which,  as  you  say  yourself,  men  tell  untruths 
for  others,  till  they  lose  all  truth  for  themselves.  But,  let  us 
talk  of  you,  not  me;  are  you  really  well  enough  to  leave  us?  " 

Simple  and  even  cool  as  the  words  of  Lucy's  question,  when 
written,  appear,  in  her  mouth,  they  took  so  tender,  so  anxious  a 
tone,  that  Brandon,  who  had  no  friend,  nor  wife,  nor  child, 
nor  any  one  in  his  household,  in  whom  interest  in  his  health 
or  welfare  was  a  thing  of  course,  and  who  was  consequently 
wholly  unaccustomed  to  the  accent  of  kindness,  felt  himself 
of  a  sudden,  touched  and  stricken. 

"Why,  indeed,  Lucy,"  said  he,  in  a  less  artificial  voice  than 
that  in  which  he  usually  spoke,  "I  should  like  still  to  profit  by 
your  cares,  and  forget  my  infirmities  and  pains  in  your  society ; 
but  I  cannot:  the  tide  of  events,  like  that  of  nature,  waits  not 
our  pleasure!" 

"But  we  may  take  our  own  time  for  setting  sail!"  said 
Lucy. 

"Ay,  this  comes  of  talking  in  metaphor,"  rejoined  Brandon, 
smiling;  "they  who  begin  it  always  get  the  worst  of  it.  In 
plain  words,  dear  Lucy,  I  can  give  no  more  time  to  my  own 
ailments.  A  lawyer  cannot  play  truant  in  term  time  without — " 

"Losing  a  few  guineas!"  said  Lucy,  interrupting  him. 


158  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

"Worse  than  that — his  practice  and  his  name!" 
"Better  those  than  health  and  peace  of  mind." 
"Out  on  you — no!"  said  Brandon  quickly,  and  almost 
fiercely;  "we  waste  all  the  greenness  and  pith  of  our  life  in 
striving  to  gain  a  distinguished  slavery ;  and  when  it  is  gained, 
we  must  not  think  that  an  humble  independence  would  have 
been  better!  If  we  ever  admit  that  thought,  what  fools — what 
lavish  fools  we  have  been!  No!"  continued  Brandon,  after  a 
momentary  pause,  and  in  a  tone  milder  and  gayer,  though  not 
less  characteristic  of  the  man's  stubbornness  of  will,  "after  los- 
ing all  youth's  enjoyments  and  manhood's  leisure,  in  order 
that  in  age,  the  mind,  the  all-conquering  mind,  should  break 
its  way  at  last  into  the  applauding  opinions  of  men,  I  should  be 
an  effeminate  idler  indeed,  did  I  suffer, — so  long  as  its  jarring 
parts  hold  together,  or  so  long  as  I  have  the  power  to  com- 
mand its  members, — this  weak  body  to  frustrate  the  labor  of  its 
better  and  nobler  portion,  and  command  that  which  it  is 
ordained  to  serve." 

Lucy  knew  not  while  she  listened,  half  in  fear,  half  in  admi- 
ration, to  her  singular  relation,  that  at  the  very  moment  he  thus 
spoke  his  disease  was  preying  upon  him  in  one  of  its  most  re- 
lentless moods,  without  the  power  of  wringing  from  him  a  sin- 
gle outward  token  of  his  torture.  But  she  wanted  nothing  to 
increase  her  pity  and  affection  for  a  man  who,  in  consequence, 
perhaps,  of  his  ordinary  surface  of  worldly  and  cold  properties 
of  temperament,  never  failed  to  leave  an  indelible  impression 
on  all  who  had  ever  seen  that  temperament  broken  through  by 
deeper,  though  often  by  more  evil  feelings. 

"Shall  you  go  to  Lady -'s  rout?"  asked  Brandon  easily, 

sliding    back   into    common    topics.     "Lord    Mauleverer    re- 
quested me  to  ask  you." 

"That  depends  on  you  and  my  father!" 

"If  on  me,  I  answer  yes!"  said  Brandon.  "I  like  hearing 
Mauleverer,  especially  among  persons  who  do  not  understand 
him :  there  is  a  refined  and  subtle  sarcasm  running  through  the 
commonplaces  of  his  conversation,  which  cuts  the  good  fools,  like 
the  invisible  sword  in  the  fable,  that  lopped  off  heads  without 
occasioning  the  owners  any  other  sensation  than  a  pleasing  and 
self-complacent  titillation.  How  immeasurably  superior  he  is 
in  manner  and  address  to  all  we  meet  here;  does  it  not  strike 
you?" 

"Yes — no — I  can't  say  that  it  does  exactly,"  rejoined  Lucy. 

"Is  that  confusion  tender?"  thought  Brandon. 

"In  a   word,"  continued  Lucy,   "Lord    Mauleverer  is  one 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  159 

whom  I  think  pleasing,  without  fascination ;  and  amusing,  with- 
out brilliancy.  He  is  evidently  accomplished  in  mind,  and 
graceful  in  manner;  and  withal,  the  most  uninteresting  person 
I  ever  met." 

"Women  have  not  often  thought  so!"  said  Brandon. 

"I  cannot  believe  that  they  can  think  otherwise." 

A  certain  expression,  partaking  of  scorn,  played  over  Bran- 
don's hard  features.  It  was  a  noticeable  trait  in  him,  that 
while  he  was  most  anxious  to  impress  Lucy  with  a  favorable 
opinion  of  Lord  Mauleverer,  he  was  never  quite  able  to  mask 
a  certain  satisfaction  at  any  jest  at  the  Earl's  expense,  or  any 
opinion  derogatory  to  his  general  character  for  pleasing  the 
opposite  sex;  and  this  satisfaction  was  no  sooner  conceived 
than  it  was  immediately  combated  by  the  vexation  he  felt,  that 
Lucy  did  not  seem  to  share  his  own  desire  that  she  should  be- 
come the  wife  of  the  courtier.  There  appeared  as  if,  in  that 
respect,  there  was  a  contest  in  his  mind  between  interest  on 
one  hand,  and  private  dislike,  or  contempt,  on  the  other. 

"You  judge  women  wrongly!"  said  Brandon.  "Ladies 
never  know  each  other;  of  all  persons,  Mauleverer  is  best  cal- 
culated to  win  them,  and  experience  has  proved  my  assertion. 
The  proudest  lot  I  know  for  a  woman  would  be  the  thorough 
conquest  of  Lord  Mauleverer ;  but  it  is  impossible.  He  may 
be  gallant,  but  he  will  never  be  subdued.  He  defies  the  whole 
female  world,  and  with  justice  and  impunity.  Enough  of  him. 
Sing  to  me,  dear  Lucy." 

The  time  for  the  ball  approached,  and  Lucy,  who  was  a 
charming  girl,  and  had  nothing  of  the  angel  about  her,  was 
sufficiently  fond  of  gayety,  dancing,  music,  and  admiration,  to 
feel  her  heart  beat  high  at  the  expectation  of  the  event. 

At  last,  the  day  itself  came.  Brandon  dined  alone  with 
Mauleverer,  having  made  the  arrangement  that  he,  with  the 
Earl,  was  to  join  his  brother  and  niece  at  the  ball.  Maul- 
everer, who  hated  state,  except  on  great  occasions,  when  no  man 
displayed  it  with  a  better  grace,  never  suffered  his  servants  to 
wait  at  dinner  when  he  was  alone,  or  with  one  of  his  peculiar 
friends.  The  attendants  remained  without,  and  were  sum- 
moned at  will  by  a  bell  laid  beside  the  host. 

The  conversation  was  unrestrained. 

"I  am  perfectly  certain,  Brandon,"  said  Mauleverer,  "that 
if  you  were  to  live  tolerably  well,  you  would  soon  get  the  better 
of  your  nervous  complaints.  It  is  all  poverty  of  blood,  believe 
me.  Some  more  of  the  fins,  eh?  No!  Oh,  hang  your  abstemi- 
ousness, it  is  d — d  unfriendly  to  eat  so  little!  Talking  of  fins 


160  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

and  friends — heaven  defend  me  from  ever  again  forming  an 
intimacy  with  a  pedantic  epicure,  especially  if  he  puns!" 

"Why,  what  has  a  pedant  to  do  with  fins?" 

"I  will  tell  you — (Ah,  this  Madeira!) — I  suggested  to  Lord 
Dareville,  who  affects  the  gourmand,  what  a  capital  thing  a 
dish  all  fins — (turbot's  fins) — might  be  made.  'Capital!'  said 
he,  in  a  rapture,  'dine  on  it  with  me  to-morrow.'  '  Volou- 
tiers  !  '  said  I.  The  next  day,  after  indulging  in  a  pleasing 
revery  all  the  morning  as  to  the  manner  in  which  Dareville's 
cook,  who  is  not  without  genius,  would  accomplish  this  grand 
idea,  I  betook  myself  punctually  to  my  engagement.  Would 
you  believe  it?  When  the  cover  was  removed,  the  sacrilegious 
dog  of  an  Amphitryon  had  put  into  the  dish  Cicero  de  Finibus. 
'There  is  a  work  all  fins!'  said  he." 

"Atrocious  jest!"  exclaimed  Brandon  solemnly. 

"Was  it  not?  Whenever  the  gastronomists  set  up  a  religious 
inquisition,  I  trust  they  will  roast  every  impious  rascal  who 
treats  the  divine  mystery  with  levity.  Pun  upon  cooking,  in- 
deed !  Apropos  of  Dareville,  he  is  to  come  into  the  admin- 
istration." 

"You  astonish  me!"  said  Brandon;  "I  never  heard  that; 
I  don't  know  him.  He  has  very  little  power;  has  he  any 
talent?" 

"Yes,  a  very  great  one, — acquired  though !" 

"What  is  it?" 

"A  pretty  wife!" 

"My  lord!"  exclaimed  Brandon,  abruptly,  and  half  rising 
from  his  seat. 

Mauleverer  looked  up  hastily,  and,  on  seeing  the  expression 
of  his  companion's  face,  colored  deeply;  there  was  a  silence 
for  some  moments. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Brandon  indifferently,  helping  himself  to 
vegetables,  for  he  seldom  touched  meat ;  and  a  more  amusing 
contrast  can  scarcely  be  conceived  than  that  between  the  ear- 
nest epicurism  of  Mauleverer,  and  the  careless  contempt  of  the 
sublime  art  manifested  by  his  guest;  "tell  me,  you  who  neces- 
sarily know  everything,  whether  the  government  really  is  set- 
tled,— whether  you  are  to  have  the  Garter,  and  I — (mark  the 
difference!) — the  judgeship." 

"Why  so,  I  imagine,  it  will  be  arranged;  viz.,  if  you  will 
consent  to  hang  up  the  rogues,  instead  of  living  by  the  fools!" 

"One  may  unite  both!"  returned  Brandon.  "But  I  believe, 
in  general,  it  is  vice  versa,  for  we  live  by  the  rogues,  and  it  is 
only  the  fools  we  are  able  to  hang  up.  You  ask  me  if  I  will 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  l6l 

take  the  judgeship.  I  would  not — no,  I  would  rather  cut  my 
hand  off — (and  the  lawyer  spoke  with  great  bitterness) — for- 
sake my  present  career,  despite  all  the  obstacles  that  now  en- 
cumber it,  did  I  think  that  this  miserable  body  would  suffer 
me  for  two  years  longer  to  pursue  it." 

"You  shock  me!"  said  Mauleverer,  a  little  affected,  but 
nevertheless  applying  the  cayenne  to  his  cucumber  with  his 
usual  unerring  nicety  of  tact;  "you  shock  me,  but  you  are 
considerably  better  than  you  were." 

"It  is  not,"  continued  Brandon,  who  was  rather  speaking  to 
himself  than  to  his  friend — "it  is  not  that  I  am  unable  to  con- 
quer the  pain,  and  to  master  the  recreant  nerves ;  but  I  feel 
myself  growing  weaker  and  weaker  beneath  the  continual  ex- 
ertion of  my  remaining  powers,  and  I  shall  die  before  I  have 
gained  half  my  objects,  if  I  do  not  leave  the  labors  which  are 
literally  tearing  me  to  pieces." 

"But,"  said  Lord  Mauleverer,  who  was  the  idlest  of  men, 
"the  judgeship  is  not  an  easy  sinecure." 

"No!  but  there  is  less  demand  on  the  mind  in  that  station, 
than  in  my  present  one"  ;  and  Brandon  paused  before  he  con- 
tinued. "Candidly,  Mauleverer,  you  do  not  think  they  will 
deceive  me?  .  You  do  not  think  they  mean  to  leave  me  to  this 
political  death  without  writing  'Resurgam'  over  the  hatchment?" 

"They  dare  not!"  said  Mauleverer,  quaffing  his  fourth  glass 
of  Madeira. 

"Well !  I  have  decided  on  my  change  of  life,"  said  the  law- 
yer, with  a  slight  sigh. 

"So  have  I  on  my  change  of  opinion,"  chimed  in  the  Earl. 
"I  will  tell  you  what  opinions  seem  to  me  like." 

"What?"  said  Brandon  abstractedly. 

"  Tree s  !  "  answered  Mauleverer  quaintly.  "If  they  can  be 
made  serviceable  by  standing,  don't  part  with  a  stick;  but 
when  they  are  of  that  growth  that  sells  well,  or  whenever  they 
shut  out  a  fine  prospect,  cut  them  down,  and  pack  them  off 
by  all  manner  of  means!  And  now  for  the  second  course." 

"I  wonder,"  said  the  Earl,  when  our  political  worthies  were 
again  alone,  "whether  there  ever  existed  a  minister  who  cared 
three  straws  for  the  people;  many  care  for  their  party ',  but  as 
for  the  country — " 

"It  is  all  fiddlestick!"  added  the  lawyer,  with  more  signifi- 
cance than  grace. 

"Right;  it  is  all  fiddlestick,  as  you  tersely  express  it. 
King,  Constitution,  and  Church,  forever!  which,  being  inter- 
preted, means,  first,  King,  or  Crown  influence,  judgeships, 


1&2  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

and  Garters;  secondly,  Constitution,  or  fees  to  the  lawyers, 
places  to  the  statesmen,  laws  for  the  rich,  and  Game  Laws  for 
the  poor;  thirdly,  Church,  or  livings  for  our  younger  sons,  and 
starving  for  their  curates !" 

"Ha,  ha!"  said  Brandon,  laughing  sardonically;  "we  know 
human  nature ! ' ' 

"And  how  it  may  be  gulled!"  quoth  the  courtier.  "Here's 
a  health  to  your  niece !  and  may  it  not  be  long  before  you  hail 
her  as  your  friend's  bride!" 

"Bride,  et  catera, "  said  Brandon,  with  a  sneer,  meant  only 
for  his  own  satisfaction.  "But  mark  me,  my  dear  lord,  do  not 
be  too  sure  of  her ;  she  is  a  singular  girl,  and  of  more  indepen- 
dence than  the  generality  of  women.  She  will  not  think  of 
your  rank  and  station  in  estimating  you ;  she  will  think  only  of 
their  owner ;  and  pardon  me  if  I  suggest  to  you,  who  know  the 
sex  so  well,  one  plan  that  it  may  not  be  unadvisable  for  you  to 
pursue.  Don't  let  her  fancy  you  entirely  hers;  rouse  her  jeal- 
ousy, pique  her  pride;  let  her  think  you  unconquerable,  and, 
unless  she  is  unlike  all  women,  she  will  want  to  conquer  you." 

The  Earl  smiled.  "I  must  take  my  chance!"  said  he,  with 
a  confident  tone. 

:  "The  hoary  coxcomb!"  muttered  Brandon,  between  his 
teeth;  "now  will  his  folly  spoil  all." 

"And  that  reminds  me,"  continued  Mauleverer,  "that  time 
wanes,  and  dinner  is  not  over;  let  us  not  hurry,  but  let  us  be 
silent,  to  enjoy  the  more.  These  truffles  in  champagne — do 
taste  them,  they  would  raise  the  dead." 

The  lawyer  smiled,  and  accepted  the  kindness,  though  he 
left  the  delicacy  untouched ;  and  Mauleverer,  whose  soul  was 
in  his  plate,  saw  not  the  heartless  rejection. 

Meanwhile,  the  youthful  beauty  had  already  entered  the  thea- 
tre of  pleasure,  and  was  now  seated  with  the  squire,  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  half-filled  ball  room. 

A  gay  lady  of  the  fashion  at  that  time,  and  of  that  half  and  half 
rank  to  which  belonged  the  aristocracy  of  Bath, — one  of  those 
curious  persons  we  meet  with  in  the  admirable  novels  of  Miss 
Burney,  as  appertaining  to  the  order  of  fine  ladies, — made  the 
trio  with  our  heiress  and  her  father,  and  pointed  out  to  them 
by  name  the  various  characters  that  entered  the  apartments. 
She  was  still  in  the  full  tide  of  scandal,  when  an  unusual  sen- 
sation was  visible  in  the  environs  of  the  door ;  three  strangers 
of  marked  mien,  gay  dress,  and  an  air  which,  though  differing 
in  each,  was  in  all  alike  remarkable  for  a  sort  of  "dashing" 
assurance,  made  their  entree.  One  was  of  uncommon  height, 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  163 

and  possessed  of  an  exceedingly  fine  head  of  hair ;  another  was 
of  a  more  quiet  and  unpretending  aspect,  but,  nevertheless,  he 
wore  upon  his  face  a  supercilious,  yet  not  ill-humored  expres- 
sion ;  the  third  was  many  years  younger  than  his  companions, 
strikingly  handsome  in  face  and  figure,  altogether  of  a  better 
taste  in  dress,  and  possessing  a  manner  that,  though  it  had 
equal  ease,  was  not  equally  noticeable  for  impudence  and 
swagger. 

"Who  can  those  be?"  said  Lucy's  female  friend  in  a  won- 
dering tone,  "I  never  saw  them  before;  they  must  be  great 
people — they  have  all  the  airs  of  persons  of  quality !  Dear, 
how  odd  that  I  should  not  know  them!" 

While  the  good  lady,  who,  like  all  good  ladies  of  that  stamp, 
thought  people  of  quality  had  airs,  was  thus  lamenting  her 
ignorance  of  the  new  comers,  a  general  whisper  of  a  similar 
import  was  already  circulating  round  the  room;  "Who  are 
they?"  and  the  universal  answer  was,  "Can't  tell — never  saw 
them  before!" 

Our  strangers  seemed  by  no  means  displeased  with  the  evi- 
dent and  immediate  impression  they  had  made.  They  stood 
in  the  most  conspicuous  part  of  the  room,  enjoying  among  them- 
selves, a  low  conversation,  frequently  broken  by  fits  of  laughter ; 
tokens,  we  need  not  add,  of  their  super-eminently  good  breed- 
ing. The  handsome  figure  of  the  youngest  stranger,  and  the 
simple  and  seemingly  unconscious  grace  of  his  attitudes,  were 
not,  however,  unworthy  of  the  admiration  he  excited  ;  and  even 
his  laughter,  rude  as  it  really  was,  displayed  so  dazzling  a  set 
of  teeth,  and  was  accompanied  by  such  brilliant  eyes,  that 
before  he  had  been  ten  minutes  in  the  room  there  was  scarcely 
a  young  lady  under  thirty-nine  not  disposed  to  fall  in  love 
with  him. 

Apparently  heedless  of  the  various  remarks  which  reached 
their  ears,  our  strangers,  after  they  had  from  their  station  suffi- 
ciently surveyed  the  beauties  of  the  ball,  strolled  arm-in-arm 
through  the  rooms.  Having  sauntered  through  the  ball  and 
card-rooms,  they  passed  the  door  that  led  to  the  entrance 
passage,  and  gazed,  with  other  loiterers,  upon  the  new  comers 
ascending  the  stairs.  Here  the  two  younger  strangers  renewed 
their  whispered  conversation,  while  the  eldest,  who  was  also 
the  tallest  one,  carelessly  leaning  against  the  wall,  employed 
himself  for  a  few  moments  in  thrusting  his  fingers  through  his 
hair.  In  finishing  this  occupation,  the  peculiar  state  of  his 
ruffles  forced  itself  upon  the  observation  of  our  gentleman, 
who,  after  gazing  for  some  moments  on  an  envious  rent  in  the 


164  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

right  ruffle,  muttered  some  indistinct  words,  like;  "the  cock  of 
that  confounded  pistol, "and  then  tucked  up  the  mutilated  or- 
nament with  a  peculiarly  nimble  motion  of  the  fingers  of  his 
left  hand:  the  next  moment,  diverted  by  a  new  care,  the 
stranger  applied  his  digital  members  to  the  arranging  and 
caressing  of  a  remarkably  splendid  brooch,  set  in  the  bosom 
of  a  shirt,  the  rude  texture  of  which  formed  a  singular  con- 
trast with  the  magnificence  of  the  embellishment,  and  the 
fineness  of  the  one  ruffle  suffered  by  our  modern  Hyperion  to 
make  its  appearance  beneath  his  cinnamon-colored  coat-sleeve. 
These  little  personal  arrangements  completed,  and  a  dazzling 
snuff-box  released  from  the  confinement  of  a  side-pocket,  tapped 
thrice,  and  lightened  of  two  pinches  of  its  titillating  luxury, 
the  stranger  now,  with  the  guardian  eye  of  friendship,  directed 
a  searching  glance  to  the  dress  of  his  friends.  There,  all  ap- 
peared meet  for  his  strictest  scrutiny,  save,  indeed,  that  the 
supercilious-looking  stranger  having  just  drawn  forth  his  gloves, 
the  lining  of  his  coat-pocket — which  was  rather  soiled  into  the 
bargain — had  not  returned  to  its  internal  station;  the  tall 
stranger,  seeing  this  little  inelegance,  kindly  thrust  three  fingers 
with  a  sudden  and  light  dive  into  his  friend's  pocket,  and  effec- 
tually repulsed  the  forwardness  of  the  intrusive  lining.  The 
supercilious  stranger  no  sooner  felt  the  touch,  than  he  started 
back,  and  whispered  his  officious  companion: 

"What!  among  friends,  Ned!  Fie  now;  curb  the  nature  in 
thee  for  one  night,  at  least." 

Before  he  of  the  flowing  locks  had  time  to  answer,  the 
master  of  the  ceremonies,  who  had  for  the  last  three  minutes 
been  eyeing  the  strangers  through  his  glass,  stepped  forward 
with  a  sliding  bow,  and  the  handsome  gentleman  taking  upon 
himself  the  superiority  and  precedence  over  his  comrades,  was 
the  first  to  return  the  courtesy.  He  did  this  with  so  good  a 
grace,  and  so  pleasing  an  expression  of  countenance,  that  the 
censor  of  bows  was  charmed  at  once,  and,  with  a  second  and 
more  profound  salutation,  announced  himself  and  his  office. 

"You  would  like  to  dance,  probably,  gentlemen?"  he  asked, 
glancing  at  each,  but  directing  his  words  to  the  one  who  had 
prepossessed  him. 

"You  are  very  good,"  said  the  comely  stranger;  "and,  for 
my  part,  I  shall  be  extremely  indebted  to  you  for  the  exercise 
of  your  powers  in  my  behalf.  Allow  me  to  return  with  you  to 
the  ball-room  and  I  can  there  point  out  to  you  the  objects  of 
my  especial  admiration." 

The  master  of  the  ceremonies  bowed  as  before,  and  he  and 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  l6({ 

his  new  acquaintance  strolled  into  the  ball-room,  followed  by 
the  two  comrades  of  the  latter. 

"Have  you  been  long  in  Bath,  sir?"  inquired  the  monarch  of 
the  rooms. 

"No,  indeed!   we  only  arrived  this  evening." 

"From  London?" 

"No:   we  made  a  little  tour  across  the  country." 

"Ah!   very  pleasant,  this  fine  weather." 

"Yes;  especially  in  the  evenings." 

"Oho!  romantic!"  thought  the  man  of  balls,  as  he  rejoined 
aloud,  "Why  the  nights  are  agreeable,  and  the  moon  is  partic- 
ularly favorable  to  us." 

' '  Not  always ! ' '  quoth  the  stranger. 

"True — true,  the  night  before  last  was  dark;  but,  in  gen- 
eral, surely  the  moon  has  been  very  bright." 

The  stranger  was  about  to  answer,  but  checked  himself,  and 
simply  bowed  his  head  as  in  assent. 

"I  wonder  who  they  are!"  thought  the  master  of  the  cere- 
monies. "Pray,  sir,"  said  he  in  a  low  tone,  "is  that  gentle- 
man— that  tall  gentleman,  any  way  related  to  Lord ?  I 

cannot  but  think  I  see  a  family  likeness." 

"Not  in  the  least  related  to  his  lordship,"  answered  the 
stranger;  "but  he  is  of  a  family  that  have  made  a  noise  in  the 
world;  though  he  (as  well  as  my  other  friend)  is  merely  a  com- 
moner!" laying  a  stress  on  the  last  word. 

"Nothing,  sir,  can  be  more  respectable  than  a  commoner  of 
family,"  returned  the  polite  Mr.  ,  with  a  bow. 

"I  agree  with  you,  sir,"  answered  the  stranger,  with  an- 
other. "But,  heavens!" — and  the  stranger  started;  for  at 
that  moment  his  eye  caught  for  the  first  time,  at  the  far  end  of 
the  room,  the  youthful  and  brilliant  countenance  of  Lucy 
Brandon, — "do  I  see  rightly?  or  is  that  Miss  Brandon?" 

"It  is  indeed  that  lovely  young   lady,"  said  Mr. .     "I 

congratulate  you  on  knowing  one  so  admired.  I  suppose  that 
you,  being  blessed  with  her  acquaintance,  do  not  need  the  for- 
mality of  my  introduction?" 

"Umph!"said  the  stranger,  rather  shortly  and  uncourteously. 
"No!  Perhaps  you  had  better  present  me!" 

"By  what  name  shall  I  have  that  honor,  sir?"  discreetly  in- 
quired the  nomenclator. 

"Clifford!"  answered  the  stranger;   "Captain   Clifford!" 

Upon  this  the  prim  master  of  the  ceremonies,  threading  his 
path  through  the  now  fast-filling  room,  approached  towards 
Lucy  to  obey  Mr.  Clifford's  request.  Meanwhile,  that  gentle* 


Ib6  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

man,  before  he  followed  the  steps  of  the  tutelary  spirit  of  the 
place,  paused,  and  said  to  his  friends,  in  a  tone  careless,  yet 
not  without  command,  "Hark  ye,  gentlemen,  oblige  me  by 
being  as  civil  and  silent  as  ye  are  able,  and  don't  thrust  your- 
selves upon  me,  as  you  are  accustomed  to  do,  whenever  you 
see  no  opportunity  of  indulging  me  with  that  honor  with  the 
least  show  of  propriety ! "  So  saying,  and  waiting  no  reply,  Mr. 
Clifford  hastened  after  the  master  of  the  ceremonies. 

"Our  friend  grows  mighty  imperious!"  said  Long  Ned, 
whom  our  readers  have  already  recognized  in  the  tall  stranger. 

"  'Tis  the  way  with  your  rising  geniuses,"  answered  the 
moralizing  Augustus  Tomlinson.  "Suppose  we  go  to  the  card- 
room,  and  get  up  a  rubber!" 

"Well  thought  of,"  said  Ned,  yawning — a  thing  he  was  very 
apt  to  do  in  society;  "and  I  wish  nothing  worse  to  those  who 
try  our  rubbers,  than  that  they  may  be  well  cleaned  by  them." 
Upon  this  witticism  the  Colossus  of  Roads,  glancing  towards 
the  glass,  strutted  off  arm-in-arm  with  his  companion  to  the 
card-room. 

During  this  short  conversation  the  re-introduction  of  Mr. 
Clifford  (the  stranger  of  the  Rectory  and  deliverer  of  Dr.  Slop- 
perton)  to  Lucy  Brandon  had  been  effected,  and  the  hand  of 
the  heiress  was  already  engaged  (according  to  the  custom  of 
that  time)  for  the  two  ensuing  dances. 

It  was  about  twenty  minutes  after  the  above  presentation 
had  taken  place  that  Lord  Mauleverer  and  William  Brandon 
entered  the  rooms ;  and  the  buzz  created  by  the  appearance  of 
the  noted  peer  and  the  distinguished  lawyer  had  scarcely  sub- 
sided, before  the  royal  personage  expected  to  grace  the  "fes- 
tive scene"  (as  the  newspapers  say  of  a  great  room  with  plenty 
of  miserable-looking  people  in  it)  arrived.  The  most  attrac- 
tive persons  in  Europe  may  be  found  among  the  royal  family 
of  England,  and  the  great  personage  then  at  Bath,  in  conse- 
quence of  certain  political  intrigues,  wished,  at  that  time  espe- 
cially, to  make  himself  as  popular  as  possible.  Having  gone 
the  round  of  the  old  ladies,  and  assured  them,  as  the  Court 
Journal  assures  the  old  ladies  at  this  day,  that  they  were 
"morning  stars,"  and  "swan-like  wonders,"  the  Prince  espied 
Brandon,  and  immediately  beckoned  to  him  with  a  familiar 
gesture.  The  smooth  but  saturnine  lawyer  approached  the 
royal  presence  with  the  manner  that  peculiarly  distinguished  him, 
and  which  blended,  in  no  ungraceful  mixture,  a  species  of  stiff- 
ness, that  passed  with  the  crowd  for  native  independence,  with 
a  supple  insinuation,  that  was  usually  deemed  the  token  of 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  167 

latent  benevolence  of  heart.  There  was  something,  indeed,  in 
Brandon's  address  that  always  pleased  the  great;  and  they 
liked  him  the  better,  because,  though  he  stood  on  no  idle  politi- 
cal points,  mere  differences  in  the  view  taken  of  a  hair-breadth, — • 
such  as  a  corn  law,  or  a  Catholic  bill ;  alteration  in  the  church, 
or  a  reform  in  Parliament ;  yet  he  invariably  talked  so  like  a 
man  of  honor  (except  when  with  Mauleverer),  that  his  urban- 
ity seemed  attachment  to  individuals ;  and  his  concessions  to 
power,  sacrifices  of  private  opinion  for  the  sake  of  obliging 
his  friends. 

"I  am  very  glad,  indeed,"  said  the  royal  personage,  "to  see 
Mr.  Brandon  looking  so  much  better.  Never  was  the  Crown 
in  greater  want  of  his  services;  and,  if  rumor  speak  true,  they 
will  soon  be  required  in  another  department  of  his  profession." 

Brandon  bowed,  and  answered : 

"So  please  Your  Royal  Highness,  they  will  always  be  at  the 
command  of  a  king  from  whom  I  have  experienced  such  kind- 
ness, in  any  capacity  for  which  His  Majesty  may  deem  them 
fitting." 

"It  is  true,  then!"  said  His  Royal  Highness,  significantly. 
"I  congratulate  you!  The  quiet  dignity  of  the  bench  must 
seem  to  you  a  great  change  after  a  career  so  busy,  and 
restless?" 

"I  fear  I  shall  feel  so  at  first,  Your  Royal  Highness,"  ans- 
wered Brandon,  "for  I  like  even  the  toil  of  my  profession;  and 
at  this  moment,  when  I  am  in  full  practice,  it  more  than  ever — 
but  (checking  himself  at  once)  His  Majesty's  wishes,  and  my 
satisfaction  in  complying  with  them,  are  more  than  sufficient  to 
remove  any  momentary  regret  I  might  otherwise  have  felt  in 
quitting  those  toils  which  have  now  become  to  me  a  second 
nature." 

"It  is  possible,"  rejoined  the  Prince,  "that  His  Majesty 
took  into  consideration  the  delicate  state  of  health  which,  in 
common  with  the  whole  public,  I  grieve  to  see  the  papers  have 
attributed  to  one  of  the  most  distinguished  ornaments  of  the 
bar. ' ' 

"So  please  Your  Royal  Highness,"  answered  Brandon, 
coolly,  and  with  a  smile  which  the  most  piercing  eye  could  not 
have  believed  the  mask  to  the  agony  then  gnawing  at  his 
nerves,  "it  is  the  interest  of  my  rivals  to  exaggerate  the  little 
ailments  of  a  weak  constitution.  I  thank  Providence  that  I 
am  now  entirely  recovered;  and  at  no  time  of  my  life  have  I 
been  less  unable  to  discharge — so  far  as  my  native  and  mental 
incapacities  will  allow — the  duties  of  any  occupation,  however 


l68  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

arduous.  Nay,  as  the  brute  grows  accustomed  to  the  mill,  so 
have  I  grown  wedded  to  business ;  and  even  the  brief  relaxa- 
tion I  have  now  allowed  myself  seems  to  me  rather  irksome 
than  pleasurable." 

"I  rejoice  to  hear  you  speak  thus,"  answered  His  Royal 
Highness  warmly;  "and  I  trust  for  many  years,  and,"  added 
he,  in  a  lower  tone,  "in  the  highest  chamber  of  the  senate,  that 
we  may  profit  by  your  talents.  The  times  are  those  in  which 
many  occasions  occur,  that  oblige  all  true  friends  of  the  Con- 
stitution to  quit  minor  employment  for  that  great  constitu- 
tional one  that  concerns  us  all,  the  highest  and  the  meanest; 
and  (the  royal  voice  sank  still  lower)  I  feel  justified  in  assuring 
you,  that  the  office  of  chief  justice  alone  is  not  considered  by 
His  Majesty  as  a  sufficient  reward  for  your  generous  sacrifice 
of  present  ambition  to  the  difficulties  of  government." 

Brandon's  proud  heart  swelled,  and  that  moment  the  veri- 
est pains  of  hell  would  scarcely  have  been  felt. 

While  the  aspiring  schemer  was  thus  agreeably  engaged, 
Mauleverer,  sliding  through  the  crowd  with  that  grace  which 
charmed  every  one,  old  and  young,  and  addressing  to  all  he 
knew  some  lively  or  affectionate  remark,  made  his  way  to  the 
dancers,  among  whom  he  had  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  Lucy. 
"I  wonder,"  he  thought,  "whom  she  is  dancing  with.  I  hope 
it  is  that  ridiculous  fellovv,  Mossop,  who  tells  a  good  story 
against  himself;  or  that  handsome  ass,  Belmont,  who  looks  at 
his  own  legs,  instead  of  seeming  to  have  eyes  for  no  one  but 
his  partner.  Ah !  if  Tarquin  had  but  known  women  as  well  as 
I  do,  he  would  have  had  no  reason  to  be  rough  with  Lucretia. 
'Tis  a  thousand  pities  that  experience  comes,  in  women,  as  in 
the  world,  just  when  it  begins  to  be  no  longer  of  use  to  us!" 

As  he  made  these  moral  reflections,  Mauleverer  gained  the 
dancers,  and  beheld  Lucy  listening,  with  downcast  eyes  and 
cheeks  that  evidently  blushed,  to  a  young  man,  whom  Maul- 
everer acknowledged  at  once  to  be  one  of  the  best-looking  fel- 
lows he  had  ever  seen.  The  stranger's  countenance,  despite 
an  extreme  darkness  of  complexion,  was,  to  be  sure,  from  the 
great  regularity  of  the  features,  rather  effeminate;  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  his  figure,  though  slender  and  graceful,  betrayed 
to  an  experienced  eye  an  extraordinary  proportion  of  sinew  and 
muscle;  and  even  the  dash  of  effeminacy  in  the  countenance 
was  accompanied  by  so  manly  and  frank  an  air,  and  was  so 
perfectly  free  from  all  coxcombry  or  self-conceit,  that  it  did 
not  in  the  least  decrease  the  prepossessing  effect  of  his  appear- 
ance. An  angry  and  bitter  pang  shot  across  that  portion  of 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  169 

Mauleverer's  frame  which  the  Earl  thought  fit,  for  want  of 
another  name,  to  call  his  heart.  "How  cursedly  pleased  she 
looks!"  muttered  he.  "By  heaven!  that  stolen  glance  under 
the  left  eyelid,  dropped  as  suddenly  as  it  is  raised !  and  he — 
ha! — how  firmly  he  holds  that  little  hand.  I  think  I  see 
him  paddle  with  it ;  and  then  the  dog's  earnest,  intent  look — 
and  she  all  blushes!  though  she  dare  not  look  up  to  meet  his 
gaze,  feeling  it  by  intuition.  Oh!  the  demure,  modest,  shame- 
faced hypocrite!  How  silent  she  is!  She  can  prate  enough 
to  me  !  I  would  give  my  promised  Garter  if  she  would  talk  to 
him.  Talk — talk — laugh — prattle — only  simper,  in  God's  name 
and  I  shall  be  happy!  But  that  bashful,  blushing  silence — it 
is  unsupportable.  Thank  Heaven,  the  dance  is  over!  Thank 
Heaven,  again!  I  have  not  felt  such  pains  since  the  last 
nightmare  I  had,  after  dining  with  her  father!" 

With  a  face  all  smiles,  but  with  a  mien  in  which  more  dig- 
nity than  he  ordinarily  assumed  was  worn,  Mauleverer  now 
moved  towards  Lucy,  who  was  leaning  on  her  partner's  arm. 
The  Earl,  who  had  ample  tact  where  his  consummate  selfish- 
ness did  not  warp  it,  knew  well  how  to  act  the  lover,  without 
running  ridiculously  into  the  folly  of  seeming  to  play  the  hoary 
dangler.  He  sought  rather  to  be  lively  than  sentimental ;  and 
beneath  the  wit  to  conceal  the  suitor. 

Having  paid  then,  with  a  careless  gallantry,  his  first  compli- 
ments, he  entered  into  so  animated  a  conversation,  inter- 
spersed with  so  many  naive  yet  palpably  just  observations  on 
the  characters  present,  that  perhaps  he  had  never  appeared  to 
more  brilliant  advantage.  At  length,  as  the  music  was  about 
to  recommence,  Mauleverer,  with  a  careless  glance  at  Lucy's 
partner,  said,  "Will  Miss  Brandon  now  allow  me  the  agreeable 
duty  of  conducting  her  to  her  father?" 

"I  believe,"  answered  Lucy,  and  her  voice  suddenly  became 
timid,  "that,  according  to  the  laws  of  the  rooms,  I  am  engaged 
to  this  gentleman  for  another  dance." 

Clifford,  in  an  assured  and  easy  tone,  replied  in  assent. 

As  he  spoke  Mauleverer  honored  him  with  a  more  accurate 
survey  than  he  had  hitherto  bestowed  upon  him ;  and  whether 
or  not  there  was  any  expression  of  contempt  or  supercilious- 
ness in  the  survey,  it  was  sufficient  to  call  up  the  indignant 
blood  to  Clifford's  cheek.  Returning  the  look  with  interest, 
he  said  to  Lucy,  "I  believe,  Miss  Brandon,  that  the  dance  is 
about  to  begin";  and  Lucy,  obeying  the  hint,  left  the  aristo- 
cratic Mauleverer  to  his  own  meditations. 

At  that  moment  the  master  of  the  ceremonies  came  bowing 


I7<5  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

by,  half  afraid  to  address  so  great  a  person  as  Mauleverer,  but 
willing  to  show  his  respect  by  the  profoundness  of  his  salu- 
tation. 

"Aha!  my  dear  Mr. !"  said  the  Earl,  holding  out  both 

his  hands  to  the  Lycurgus  of  the  rooms;  "how  are  you?  Pray 
can  you  inform  me  who  that  young — man  is,  now  dancing 
with  Miss  Brandon?" 

"It  is — let  me  see.  Oh!  it  is  a  Captain  Clifford,  my  lord! 
a  very  fine  young  man,  my  lord !  Has  your  lordship  never 
met  him?' ' 

"Never!  who  is  he?  One  under  your  more  especial  patron- 
age?" said  the  Earl,  smiling. 

"Nay,  indeed!"  answered  the  master  of  the  ceremonies, 
with  a  simper  of  gratification  ;  "I  scarcely  know  who  he  is  yet ; 
the  captain  only  made  his  appearance  here  to-night  for  the  first 
time.  He  came  with  two  other  gentlemen — ah!  there  they 
are!"  and  he  pointed  the  Earl's  scrutinizing  attention  to  the 
elegant  forms  of  Mr.  Augustus  Tomlinson  and  Mr.  Ned  Pep- 
per, just  emerging  from  the  card-rooms.  The  swagger  of  the 
latter  gentleman  was  so  peculiarly  important  that  Mauleverer, 
angry  as  he  was,  could  scarcely  help  laughing.  The  master  of 
the  ceremonies  noted  the  Earl's  countenance,  and  remarked, 
that  "that  fine-looking  man  seemed  disposed  to  give  himself 
airs  •" 

"Judging  from  the  gentleman's  appearance, "  said  the  Earl 
drily  (Ned's  face,  to  say  truth,  did  betoken  his  affection  for 
the  bottle),  "I  should  imagine  that  he  was  much  more  accus- 
tomed to  give  himself  thorough  draughts  !" 

"Ah!"  renewed  the  arbiter  elegantiarum,  who  had  not 
heard  Mauleverer 's  observation,  which  was  uttered  in  a  very 
low  voice, — "Ah!  they  seem  real  dashers!" 

"Dashers!"  repeated  Mauleverer;  "true,  haberdashers!" 

Long  Ned  now,  having  in  the  way  of  his  profession  acquitted 
himself  tolerably  well  at  the  card-table,  thought  he  had  pur- 
chased the  right  to  parade  himself  through  the  rooms,  and 
show  the  ladies  what  stuff  a  Pepper  could  be  made  of. 

Leaning  with  his  left  hand  on  Tomlinson's  arm,  and  em- 
ploying the  right  in  fanning  himself,  furiously  with  his  huge 
chapeau  bras,  the  lengthy  adventurer  stalked  slowly  along, — 
now  setting  out  one  leg  jauntily,  now  the  other,  and  ogling 
"the  ladies"  with  a  kind  of  Irish  look,  viz.,  a  look  between  a 
wink  and  a  stare. 

Released  from  the  presence  of  Clifford,  who  kept  a  certain 
check  on  his  companions,  the  apparition  of  Ned  became  glar- 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  17! 

ingly  conspicuous;  and  wherever  he  passed,  a  universal  whis- 
per succeeded. 

"Who  can  he  be?"  said  the  Widow  Matemore ;  "  'tis  a  droll 
creature;  but  what  a  head  of  hair!" 

"For  my  part,"  answered  the  spinster  Sneeral],  "I  think  he 
is  a  linen-draper  in  disguise;  for  I  heard  him  talk  to  his  com- 
panions of  'tape.'  ' 

"Well,  well,"  thought  Mauleverer,  "it  would  be  but  kind  to 
seek  out  Brandon,  and  hint  to  him  in  what  company  his  niece 
seems  to  have  fallen!"  And  so  thinking,  he  glided  to  the  cor- 
ner where,  with  a  gray-headed  old  politician,  the  astute  lawyer 
was  conning  the  affairs  of  Europe. 

In  the  interim,  the  second  dance  had  ended,  and  Clifford 
was  conducting  Lucy  to  her  seat,  each  charmed  with  the  other, 
when  he  found  himself  abruptly  tapped  on  the  back,  and,  turn- 
ing round  in  alarm, — for  such  taps  were  not  unfamiliar  to  him, — 
he  saw  the  cool  countenance  of  Long  Ned,  with  one  finger 
sagaciously  laid  beside  the  nose. 

"How  now?"  said  Clifford,  between  his  ground  teeth,  "did 
I  not  tell  thee  to  put  that  huge  bulk  of  thine  as  far  from  me 
as  possible?" 

"Humph!"  grunted  Ned,  "if  these  are  my  thanks,  I  may  as 
well  keep  my  kindness  to  myself;  but  know  you,  my  kid,  that 
lawyer  Brandon  is  here,  peering  through  the  crowd,  at  this 
very  moment,  in  order  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  that  woman's  face 
of  thine." 

"Ha!"  answered  Clifford,  in  a  very  quick  tone,  "begone 
then!  I  will  meet  you  without  the  rooms  immediately." 

Clifford  now  turned  to  his  partner,  and  bowing  very  low,  in 
reality  to  hide  his  face  from  those  sharp  eyes  which  had  once 
seen  it  in  the  court  of  Justice  Burnflat,  said,  "I  trust,  madam,  I 
shall  have  the  honor  to  meet  you  again ;  is  it,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  to  ask,  with  your  celebrated  uncle  that  you  are  stay- 
ing, or—" 

"With  my  father,"  answered  Lucy,  concluding  the  sentence 
Clifford  had  left  unfinished;  "but  my  uncle  has  been  with  us, 
though  I  fear  he  leaves  us  to-morrow." 

Clifford's  eyes  sparkled;  he  made  no  answer,  but,  bowing 
again,  receded  into  the  crowd,  and  disappeared.  Several  times 
that  night  did  the  brightest  eyes  in  Somersetshire  rove  anx- 
iously round  the  rooms  in  search  of  our  hero;  but  he  was 
seen  no  more. 

It  was  on  the  stairs  that  Clifford  encountered  his  comrades ; 
taking  an  arm  of  each,  he  gained  the  door  without  any  adven- 


172  t»AUL    CLIFFORD. 

ture  worth  noting,  save  that,  being  kept  back  by  the  crowd  for 
a  few  moments,  the  moralizing  Augustus  Tomlinson,  who  hon- 
ored the  moderate  Whigs  by  enrolling  himself  among  their 
number,  took  up,  pour  passer  le  temp^  a  tall  gold-headed  cane, 
and,  weighing  it  across  his  finger  with  a  musing  air,  said, 
"Alas!  among  our  supporters  we  often  meet  heads  as  heavy, 
but  of  what  a  different  metal!"  The  crowd  now  permitting, 
Augustus  was  walking  away  with  his  companions,  and,  in  that 
absence  of  mind  characteristic  of  philosophers,  unconsciously 
bearing  with  him  the  gold-headed  object  of  his  reflection,  when 
a  stately  footman  stepping  up  to  him,  said,  "Sir,  my  cane!" 

"Cane,  fellow!"  said  Tomlinson.  "Ah,  I  am  so  absent! 
Here  is  thy  cane.  Only  think  of  my  carrying  off  the  man's 
cane,  Ned!  ha!  ha!" 

"Absent,  indeed!"  grunted  a  knowing  chairman,  watching 
the  receding  figures  of  the  three  gentlemen.  "Body  o'  me! 
but  it  was  the  cane  that  was  about  to  be  absent!" 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Whackum.  "My  dear  rogues,  dear  boys,  Bluster  and  Dingboy  !  you  are 
the  bravest  fellows  that  ever  scoured  yet !  " — SHADWELL'S  Scourers. 

"  Cato,  the  Thessalian,  was  wont  to  say,  that  some  things  may  be  done 
unjustly,  that  many  things  may  be  done  justly." — LORD  BACON  (being  a 
justification  of  every  rascality). 

ALTHOUGH  our  three  worthies  had  taken  unto  themselves  a 
splendid  lodging  in  Milsom  Street,  which  to  please  Ned  was 
over  a  hair-dresser's  shop;  yet,  instead  of  returning  thither,  or 
repairing  to  such  taverns  as  might  seem  best  befitting  their 
fashion  and  garb,  they  struck  at  once  from  the  gay  parts  of  the 
town,  and  tarried  not  till  they  reached  a  mean-looking  ale- 
house in  a  remote  suburb. 

The  door  was  opened  to  them  by  an  elderly  lady ;  and  Clif- 
ford, stalking  before  his  companions  into  an  apartment  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  asked  if  the  other  gentlemen  were  come  yet. 

"No,"  returned  the  dame.  "Old  Mr.  Bags  came  in  about 
ten  minutes  ago ;  but,  hearing  more  work  might  be  done,  he 
went  out  again." 

"Bring  the  lush  and  the  pipes,  old  blone!"  cried  Ned, 
throwing  himself  on  a  bench;  "we  are  never  at  a  loss  for 
company!". 

"You,   indeed,   never  can  be,   who  are  always  inseparably 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  173 

connected  with  the  object  of  your  admiration,"  said  Tomlin- 
son  drily,  and  taking  up  an  old  newspaper.  Ned,  who,  though 
choleric,  was  a  capital  fellow,  and  could  bear  a  joke  on  him- 
self, smiled,  and,  drawing  forth  a  little  pair  of  scissors,  began 
trimming  his  nails. 

"Curse  me,"  said  he,  after  a  momentary  silence,  "if  this 
is  not  a  devilish  deal  pleasanter  than  playing  the  fine  gentleman 
in  that  great  room  with  a  rose  in  one's  buttonhole!  What 
say  you.  Master  Lovett?" 

Clifford  (as  henceforth,  despite  his  other  aliases,  we  shall  de- 
nominate our  hero),  who  had  thrown  himself  at  full  length  on 
a  bench  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  and  who  seemed  plunged 
into  a  sullen  revery,  now  looked  up  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
turning  round  and  presenting  the  dorsal  part  of  his  body  to 
Long  Ned,  muttered,  "Pish!" 

"Harkye,  Master  Lovett!"  said  Long  Ned,  coloring.  "I 
don't  know  what  has  come  over  you  of  late;  but  I  would  have 
you  to  learn  that  gentlemen  are  entitled  to  courtesy  and  polite 
behavior:  and  so,  d'ye  see,  if  you  ride  your  high  horse  upon 
me,  splice  my  extremities,  if  I  won't  have  satisfaction!" 

"Hist,  man,  be  quiet,"  said  Tomlinson  philosophically, 
snuffing  the  candles: 

'  '  For  companions  to  quarrel, 
Is  extremely  immoral.' 

Don't  you  see  that  the  captain  is  in  a  revery?  What  good 
man  ever  loves  to  be  interrupted  in  his  meditations?  Even 
Alfred  the  Great  could  not  bear  it !  Perhaps  at  this  moment, 
with  the  true  anxiety  of  a  worthy  chief,  the  captain  is  design- 
ing something  for  our  welfare!" 

"Captain,  indeed!"  muttered  Long  Ned,  darting  a  wrathful 
look  at  Clifford,  who  had  not  deigned  to  pay  any  attention  to 
Mr.  Pepper's  threat;  "for  my  part,  I  cannot  conceive  wha<- 
was  the  matter  with  us  when  we  chose  this  green  slip  of  the 
gallows-tree  for  our  captain  of  the  district.  To  be  sure,  he  did 
very  well  at  first,  and  that  robbery  of  the  old  lord  was  not 
ill-planned ;  but  lately — " 

"Nay,  nay,"  quoth  Augustus,  interrupting  the  gigantic 
grumbler,  "the  nature  of  man  is  prone  to  discontent.  Allow 
that  our  present  design  of  setting  up  the  gay  Lothario,  and  try- 
ing our  chances  at  Bath  for  an  heiress,  is  owing  as  much  to 
Lovett's  promptitude  as  to  our  invention." 

"And  what  good  will  come  of  it?"  returned  Ned,  as  he 
lighted  his  pipe:  "answer  me  that.  Was  I  not  dressed  as  fine 


174  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

as  a  lord,  and  did  not  I  walk  three  times  up  and  down  that 
great  room  without  being  a  jot  the  better  for  it?" 

"Ah!  but  you  know  not  how  many  secret  conquests  you 
may  have  made:  you  cannot  win  a  prize  by  looking  upon  it." 

"Humph!"  grunted  Ned,  applying  himself  discontentedly 
to  the  young  existence  of  his  pipe. 

"As  for  the  captain's  partner,"  renewed  Tomlinson,  who 
maliciously  delighted  in  exciting  the  jealousy  of  the  handsome 
"tax-collector,"  for  that  was  the  designation  by  which  Augus- 
tus thought  proper  to  style  himself  and  companions;  "I  will 
turn  Tory  if  she  be  not  already  half  in  love  with  him ;  and  did 
you  hear  the  old  gentleman  who  cut  into  our  rubber  say  what  a 
fine  fortune  she  had?  Faith,  Ned,  it  is  lucky  for  us  two  that 
we  all  agreed  to  go  shares  in  our  marriage  speculations;  I 
fancy  the  worthy  captain  will  think  it  a  bad  bargain  for 
himself. ' ' 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  Mr.  Tomlinson,"  said  Long  Ned 
sourly,  eyeing  his  comrade. 

"Some  women  may  be  caught  by  a  smooth  skin  and  a  showy 
manner,  but  real  masculine  beauty, — eyes,  color,  and  hair, — 
Mr.  Tomlinson,  must  ultimately  make  its  way:  so  hand  me  the 
brandy  and  cease  your  jaw." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Tomlinson,  "I'll  give  you  a  toast:  'The 
prettiest  girl  in  England, — and  that's  Miss  Brandon!" 

"You  shall  give  no  such  toast,  sir!"  said  Clifford,  starting 
from  the  bench.  "What  the  devil  is  Miss  Brandon  to  you? 
And  now,  Ned" — (seeing  that  the  tall  hero  looked  on  him 
with  an  unfavorable  aspect), — "here's  my  hand,  forgive  me  if 
I  was  uncivil.  Tomlinson  will  tell  you,  in  a  maxim,  men  are 
changeable.  Here's  to  your  health ;  and  it  shall  not  be  my 
fault,  gentlemen,  if  we  have  not  a  merry  evening!" 

This  speech,  short  as  it  was,  met  with  great  applause  from 
the  two  friends ;  and  Clifford,  as  president,  stationed  himself 
in  a  huge  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table.  Scarcely  had  he  as- 
sumed this  dignity  before  the  door  opened,  and  half-a-dozen 
of  the  gentlemen  confederates  trooped  somewhat  noisily  into 
the  apartment. 

"Softly,  softly,  messieurs,"  said  the  president,  recovering 
all  his  constitutional  gayety,  yet  blending  it  with  a  certain  neg- 
ligent command — "respect  for  the  chair,  if  you  please!  'Tis 
the  way  with  all  assemblies  where  the  public  purse  is  a  matter 
of  deferential  interest!" 

"Hear  him!'"  cried  Tomlinson. 

"What,  my  old  friend  Bags!"    said  the  president:    "you 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  175 

have  not  come  empty-handed,  I  will  swear;  your  honest  face 
is  like  the  table  of  contents  to  the  good  things  in  your 
pockets!" 

"Ah,  Captain  Clifford,"  said  the  veteran,  groaning,  and 
shaking  his  reverend  head,  "I  have  seen  the  day  when  there 
was  not  a  lad  in  England  forked  so  largely,  so  comprehen- 
sively-like,  as  I  did.  But,  as  King  Lear  says  at  Common 
Garden,  'I  he's  old  now!' ' 

"But  your  zeal  is  as  youthful  as  ever,  my  fine  fellow,"  said 
the  captain  soothingly ;  "and  if  you  do  not  clean  out  the  pub- 
lic as  thoroughly  as  heretofore,  it  is  not  the  fault  of  your 
inclinations." 

"No,  that  it  is  not!"  cried  the  "tax-collectors"  unani- 
mously. "And  if  ever  a  pocket  is  to  be  picked  neatly,  quietly, 
and  effectually,"  added  the  complimentary  Clifford,  "I  do  not 
know  to  this  day,  throughout  the  three  kingdoms,  a  neater, 
quieter,  and  more  effective  set  of  fingers  than  Old  Bags's!" 

The  veteran  bowed  disclaimingly,  and  took  his  seat  among 
the  heartfelt  good  wishes  of  the  whole  assemblage. 

"And  now,  gentlemen,"  said  Clifford,  as  soon  as  the  revel- 
lers had  provided  themselves  with  their  wonted  luxuries,  pota- 
\ory  and  fumous,  "let  us  hear  your  adventures,  and  rejoice  our 
eyes  with  their  produce.  The  gallant  Attie  shall  begin — but 
first,  a  toast, — 'May  those  who  leap  from  a  hedge  never  leap 
from  a  tree ! ' ' 

This  toast  being  drunk  with  enthusiastic  applause,  Fighting 
Attie  began  the  recital  of  his  little  history. 

"You  sees,  captain,"  said  he,  putting  himself  in  a  martial 
position,  and  looking  Clifford  full  in  the  face,  "that  I'm  not 
addicted  to  much  blarney.  Little  cry  and  much  wool  is  my 
motto.  At  ten  o'clock,  A.M.,  saw  the  enemy — in  the  shape  of 
a  Doctor  of  Divinity.  'Blow  me,'  says  I  to  Old  Bags,  'but 
I'll  do  his  reverence!' — 'Blow  me,'  says  Old  Bags,  'but  you 
shant — you'll  have  us  scragged  if  you  touches  the  church.' — 
'My  grandmother!'  says  I.  Bags  tells  the  pals — all  in  a  fuss 
about  it — what  care  I? — I  puts  on  a  decent  dress,  and  goes  to 
the  doctor  as  a  decayed  soldier,  wot  supplies  the  shops  in  the 
turning  line.  His  reverence — a  fat  jolly  dog  as  ever  you  see — 
was  at  dinner  over  a  fine  roast  pig.  So  I  tells  him  I  have  some 
bargains  at  home  for  him.  Splice  me,  if  the  doctor  did  not 
think  he  had  got  a  prize!  so  he  puts  on  his  boots,  and  he 
comes  with  me  to  my  house,.  But  when  I  gets  him  into  a 
lane,  out  come  my  pops.  'Give  up,  doctor,'  says  I;  'others 
must  share  the  goods  of  the  church  now.'  You  has  no  idea 


176  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

what  a  row  he  made:  but  I  did  the  thing,  and  there's  an  end 
on't." 

"Bravo,  Attie!"  cried  Clifford,  and  the  word  echoed  round 
the  board.  Attie  put  a  purse  on  the  table,  and  the  next  gentle- 
man was  called  to  confession. 

"It  skills  not,  boots  not,"  gentlest  of  readers,  to  record  each 
of  the  narratives  that  now  followed  one  another.  Old  Bags,  in 
especial,  preserved  his  well-earned  reputation,  by  emptying 
six  pockets,  which  had  been  filled  with  every  possible  descrip- 
tion of  petty  valuables.  Peasant  and  prince  appeared  alike 
to  have  come  under  his  hands;  and,  perhaps,  the  good  old 
man  had  done  in  one  town  more  towards  effecting  an  equality 
of  goods  among  different  ranks,  than  all  the  Reformers,  from 
Cornwall  to  Carlisle.  Yet  so  keen  was  his  appetite  for  the 
sport,  that  the  veteran  appropriator  absolutely  burst  into  tears 
at  not  having  "forked  more." 

"I  love  a  warm-hearted  enthusiasm,"  cried  Clifford,  hand- 
ling the  movables,  while  he  gazed  lovingly  on  the  ancient  pur- 
loiner:  "May  new  cases  never  teach  us  to  forget  Old  Bags!" 

As  soon  as  this  "sentiment"  had  been  duly  drunk,  and  Mr. 
Basghot  had  dried  his  tears  and  applied  himself  to  his  favorite 
drink — which  by  the  way,  was  "blue  ruin," — the  work  of  divis- 
ion took  place.  The  discretion  and  impartiality  of  the  cap- 
tain in  this  arduous  part  of  his  duty  attracted  universal  admi- 
ration ;  and  each  gentleman  having  carefully  pouched  his  share, 
the  youhful  president  hemmed  thrice,  and  the  society  became 
aware  of  a  purposed  speech. 

"Gentlemen!"  began  Clifford, — and  his  main  supporter, 
the  sapient  Augustus,  shouted  out  "Hear!" — "Gentlemen, 
you  all  know  that  when,  some  months  ago,  you  were  pleased, — 
partly  at  the  instigation  of  Gentleman  George, — God  bless 
him! — partly  from  the  exaggerated  good  opinion  expressed  of 
me  by  my  friends, — to  elect  me  to  the  high  honor  of  the  com- 
mand of  this  district,  I  myself  was  by  no  means  ambitious  to 
assume  that  rank,  which  I  knew  well  was  far  beyond  my  mer- 
its, and  that  responsibility  which  I  knew,  with  equal  certainty, 
was  too  weighty  for  my  powers.  Your  voices,  however,  over- 
ruled my  own ;  and  as  Mr.  Muddlepud,  the  great  metaphysi- 
cian, in  that  excellent  paper  'The  Asinseum'  was  wont  to  ob- 
serve, '  the  susceptibilities,  innate,  extensible,  incomprehensible, 
and  eternal,'  existing  in  my  bosom,  were  infinitely  more  pow- 
erful than  the  shallow  suggestions  of  reason — that  ridiculous 
thing  which  all  wise  men  and  judicious  Asinseans  sedulously 
stifle." 


PAUL  CLIFFORD.  177 

"Plague  take  the  man,  what  is  he  talking  about?"  said  Long 
Ned,  who  we  have  seen  was  of  an  envious  temper,  in  a  whisper 
to  Old  Bags.  Old  Bags  shook  his  head. 

"In  a  word,  gentlemen,"  renewed  Clifford,  "your  kindness 
overpowered  me;  and,  despite  my  cooler  inclinations,  I  ac- 
cepted your  flattering  proposal.  Since  then  I  have  endeav- 
ored, so  far  as  I  have  been  able,  to  advance  your  interests ;  I 
have  kept  a  vigilant  eye  upon  all  my  neighbors;  I  have,  from 
county  .to  county,  established  numerous  correspondents;  and 
our  exertions  have  been  carried  on  with  a  promptitude  that 
has  ensured  success. 

"Gentlemen,  I  do  not  wish  to  boast,  but  on  these  nights  of 
periodical  meetings,  when  every  quarter  brings  us  to  go  halves 
— when  we  meet  in  private  to  discuss  the  affairs  of  the  public — 
show  our  earnings,  as  it  were,  in  privy  council,  and  divide 
them  amicably,  as  it  were,  in  the  cabinet — ("Hear!  hear!" 
from  Mr.  Tomlinson), — it  is  customary  for  your  captain  for  the 
time  being  to  remind  you  of  his  services,  engage  your  pardon 
for  his  deficiencies,  and  your  good  wishes  for  his  future  exer- 
tions.— Gentlemen !  has  it  ever  been  said  of  Paul  Lovett  that  he 
heard  of  a  prize  and  forgot  to  tell  you  of  his  news? — ("Never! 
never!"  loud  cheering.) — Has  it  ever  been  said  of  him  that  he 
sent  others  to  seize  the  booty,  and  stayed  at  home  to  think  how  it 
should  be  spent? — ("No!  no!"  repeated  cheers.) — Has  it  ever 
been  said  of  him  that  he  took  less  share  than  his  due  of  your 
danger,  and  more  of  your  guineas? — (Cries  in  the  negative, 
accompanied  with  vehement  applause.) — Gentlemen,  I  thank 
you  for  these  flattering  and  audible  testimonials  in  my  favor; 
but  the  points  on  which  I  have  dwelt,  however  necessary  to 
my  honor,  would  prove  but  little  for  my  merits ;  they  might  be 
worthy  notice  in  your  comrade,  you  demand  more  subtle  duties 
in  your  chief.  Gentlemen!  has  it  ever  been  said  of  Paul  Lovett 
that  he  sent  out  brave  men  on  forlorn  hopes?  that  he  hazarded 
your  own  heads  by  rash  attempts  in  acquiring  pictures  of  King 
George's?  that  zeal,  in  short,  was  greater  in  him  than  caution? 
or  that  his  love  of  a  quid*  ever  made  him  neglectful  of  your 
just  aversion  to  a  quod  ?  f  (Unanimous  cheering. ) 

"Gentlemen!  since  I  have  had  the  honor  to  preside  over 
your  welfare,  Fortune,  which  favors  the  bold,  has  not  been  un- 
merciful to  you!  But  three  of  our  companions  have  been 
missed  from  our  peaceful  festivities.  One,  gentlemen,  I  myself 
expelled  from  our  corps  for  ungentlemanlike  practices:  he 
picked  pockets  oifogles\ — it  was  a  vulgar  employment.  Some 

*  Quid— a  guinea.  t  Quod— a  prison.  t  Handkerchiefs 


178  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

of  you.  gentlemen,  have  done  the  same  for  amusement — Jack 
Littlefork  did  it  for  occupation.  I  expostulated  with  him  in 
public  and  in  private ;  Mr.  Pepper  cut  his  society ;  Mr.  Tom- 
linson  read  him  an  essay  on  Real  Greatness  of  Soul:  all  was  in 
vain.  He  was  pumped  by  the  mob  for  the  theft  of  a  bird's 
eye  wipe.  The  fault  I  had  borne  with — the  detection  was  un- 
pardonable; I  expelled  him. — Who's  here  so  base  as  would  be 
a  fogle-hunter  ?  If  any,  speak;  for  him  have  I  offended! 
Who's  here  so  rude  as  would  not  be  a  gentleman?  If  any, 
speak;  for  him  have  I  offended!  I  pause  for  a  reply!  What, 
none!  then  none  have  I  offended.  (Loud  cheers.)  Gentle- 
men, I  may  truly  add,  that  I  have  done  no  more  to  Jack  Lit- 
tlefork than  you  should  do  to  Paul  Lovett !  The  next  vacancy 
in  our  ranks  was  occasioned  by  the  loss  of  Patrick  Blunderbull. 
You  know,  gentlemen,  the  vehement  exertions  that  I  made  to 
save  that  misguided  creature,  whom  I  had  made  exertions  no 
less  earnest  to  instruct.  But  he  chose  to  swindle  under  the 
name  of  the  'Honorable  Captain  Smico' ;  the  Peerage  gave 
him  the  lie  at  once ;  his  case  was  one  of  aggravation,  and  he 
was  so  remarkably  ugly,  that  he  'created  no  interest.'  He  left 
us  for  a  foreign  exile ;  and  if,  as  a  man,  I  lament  him,  I  con- 
fess to  you,  gentlemen,  as  a  'tax-collector,'  I  am  easily  con- 
soled. 

"Our  third  loss  must  be  fresh  in  your  memory.  Peter  Pop- 
well,  as  bold  a  fellow  as  ever  breathed,  is  no  more !  (A  move- 
ment in  the  assembly.) — Peace  be  with  with  him!  He  died  on 
the  field  of  battle ;  shot  dead  by  a  Scotch  colonel,  whom  poor 
Popwell  thought  to  rob  of  nothing  with  an  empty  pistol.  His 
memory,  gentlemen — in  solemn  silence! 

"These  make  the  catalogue  of  our  losses" — (resumed  the 
youthful  chief,  so  soon  as  the  "red  cup  had  crowned  the  mem- 
ory" of  Peter  Popwell), — "I  am  proud,  even  in  sorrow,  to 
think  that  the  blame  of  those  losses  rests  not  with  me.  And 
now,  friends  and  followers!  Gentlemen  of  the  Road,  the 
Street,  the  Theatre,  and  the  Shop!  Prigs,  Toby-men,  and 
Squires  of  the  Cross!  According  to  the  laws  of  our  Society,  I 
resign  into  your  hands  that  power  which  for  two  quarter  terms 
you  have  confided  to  mine,  ready  to  sink  into  your  ranks  as  a 
comrade,  nor  unwilling  to  renounce  the  painful  honor  I  have 
borne, — borne  with  much  infirmity,  it  is  true;  but  at  least 
with  a  sincere  desire  to  serve  that  cause  with  which  you  have 
intrusted  me." 

So  saying,  the  Captain  descended  from  his  chair  amidst  the 
most  uproarious  applause ;  and  as  soon  as  the  first  burst  had 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  l?<) 

partially  subsided,  Augustus  Tomlinson  rising,  with  one  hand 
in  his  breeches'  pocket  and  the  other  stretched  out,  said: 

"Gentlemen,  I  move  that  Paul  Lovett  be  again  chosen  as  our 
Captain  for  the  ensuing  term  of  three  months. — (Deafening 
cheers.) — Much  might  I  say  about  his  surpassing  merits;  but 
why  dwell  upon  that  which  is  obvious?  Life  is  short !  Why 
should  speeches  be  long?  Our  lives,  perhaps,  are  shorter  than 
the  lives  of  other  men:  why  should  not  our  harangues  be  of  a 
suitable  brevity?  Gentlemen,  I  shall  say  but  one  word  in  favor 
of  my  excellent  friend;  of  mine,  say  I?  ay,  of  mine,  of  yours. 
He  is  a  friend  to  all  of  us!  A  prime  minister  is  not  more  use- 
ful to  his  followers,  and  more  burthensome  to  the  public  than 
I  am  proud  to  say  is— Paul  Lovett! — (Loud  plaudits.) — What 
I  shall  urge  in  his  favor  is  simply  this:  the  man  whom  opposite 
parties  unite  in  praising  must  have  supereminent  merit.  Of 
all  your  companions,  gentlemen,  Paul  Lovett  is  the  only  man 
who  to  that  merit  can  advance  a  claim. — (Applause.) — You  all 
know,  gentlemen,  that  our  body  has  long  been  divided  into 
two  fractions;  each  jealous  of  the  other — each  desirous  of  as- 
cendency— and  each  emulous  which  shall  put  the  greatest 
number  of  fingers  into  the  public  pie.  In  the  language  of  the 
vulgar,  the  one  faction  would  be  called  'swindlers,'  and  the 
other  'highwaymen.'  I,  gentlemen,  who  am  fond  of  finding 
new  names  for  things,  and  for  persons,  and  am  a  bit  of  a  politi- 
cian, call  the  one  Whigs,  and  the  other  Tories. — (Clamorous 
cheering.) — Of  the  former  body.  I  am  esteemed  no  uninfluen- 
tial  member ;  of  the  latter  faction,  Mr.  Bags  is  justly  consid- 
ered the  most  shining  ornament.  Mr.  Attie  and  Mr.  Edward 
Pepper  can  scarcely  be  said  to  belong  entirely  to  either:  they 
unite  the  good  qualities  of  both:  'British  compounds'  some 
term  them:  I  term  them  Liberal  Aristocrats! — (Cheers.) — I 
now!  call  upon  you  all,  Whig  or  Swindler;  Tory  or  Highway- 
man; 'British  Compounds'  or  Liberal  Aristocrats;  I  call  upon 
you  all,  to  name  me  one  man  whom  you  will  all  agree  to  elect?" 

All — "Lovett  for  ever!" 

"Gentlemen!"  continued  the  sagacious  Augustus,  "that 
shout  is  sufficient ;  without  another  word,  I  propose,  as  your 
Captain,  Mr.  Paul  Lovett." 

"And  I  seconds  the  motion!"  said  old  Mr.  Bags. 

Our  hero,  being  now,  by  the  unanimous  applause  of  his 
confederates,  restored  to  the  chair  of  office,  returned  thanks  in 
a  neat  speech ;  and  Scarlet  Jem  declared,  with  great  solemnity, 
that  it  did  equal  honor  to  his  head  and  heart. 

The  thunders  of  eloquence  being  hushed,  flashes  of 


>8d  PAUL  CLIFFORD. 

ning,  or,  as  the  vulgar  say,  "glasses  of  gin,"  gleamed  about. 
Good  old  Mr.  Bags  stuck,  however,  to  his  blue  ruin,  and  Attie 
to  the  bottle  of  bingo;  some,  among  whom  were  Clifford  and 
the  wise  Augustus,  called  for  wine;  and  Clifford,  who  exerted 
himself  to  the  utmost  in  supporting  the  gay  duties  of  his  sta- 
tion, took  care  that  the  song  should  vary  the  pleasures  of  the 
bowl.  Of  the  songs  we  have  only  been  enabled  to  preserve  two. 
The  first  is  by  Long  Ned ;  and,  though  we  confess  we  can  see 
but  little  in  it,  yet  (perhaps  from  some  familiar  allusion  or  an- 
other, with  which  we  are  necessarily  unacquainted),  it  pro- 
duced a  prodigious  sensation, — it  ran  thus: 

THE   ROGUE'S  RECIPE. 

"  Your  honest  fool  a  rogue  to  make. 

As  great  as  can  be  seen,  sir, — 
Two  hackney'd  rogues  you  first  must  take, 
Then  place  your  fool  between,  sir. 

Virtue's  a  dunghill  cock,  ashamed 
Of  self  when  paired  with  game  ones  ; 

And  wildest  elephants  are  tamed 
If  stuck  betwixt  two  tame  ones." 

The  other  effusion  with  which  we  have  the  honor  to  favor 
our  readers  is  a  very  amusing  duet  which  took  place  between 
Fighting  Attie  and  a  tall,  thin  robber,  who  was  a  dangerous 
fellow  in  a  mob,  and  was  therefore  called  Mobbing  Francis ; 
it  was  commenced  by  the  latter: 

MOBBING   FRANCIS. 

"  The  best  of  all  robbers  as  ever  I  know'd, 

Is  the  bold  Fighting  Attie,  the  pride  of  the  road  !— 
Fighting  Attie,  my  hero,  I  saw  you  to-day 

A  purse  full  of  yellow-boys  seize  ; 
And  as,  just  at  present,  I'm  low  in  the  lay, 

I'll  borrow  a  quid,  if  you  please. 
Oh  !  bold  Fighting  Attie — the  knowing — the  natty — 

By  us  all  it  must  sure  be  confest, 
Though  your  shoppers  and  snobbers  are  pretty  good  robbers, 

A  soldier  is  always  the  best." 

FIGHTING   ATTIE. 

"  Stubble  your  -winds* 

You  wants  to  trick  I. 
Lend  you  my  quids  ? 
Not  one,  by  Dickey." 

*  Hold  your  tongue. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  l8l 

MOBBING  FRANCIS. 

"  Oh,  what  a  beast  is  a  niggardly  ruffler, 

Nabbing — grabbing  all  for  himself  ; 
Hang  it,  old  fellow,  I'll  hit  you  a  muffler, 

Since  you  won't  give  me  a  pinch  of  the  pelf. 
You  has  not  a  heart  for  the  general  distress, — 

You  cares  not  a  mag  if  our  party  should  fall, 
And  if  Scarlet  Jem  were  riot  good  at  a  press, 

By  Goles,  it  would  soon  be  all  up  with  us  all  ! — 
Oh,  Scarlet  Jem,  he  is  trusty  and  trim, 
Like  his  wig  to  his  poll,  sticks  his  conscience  to  him  ; 
But  I  vows  I  despises  the  fellow  who  prizes 

More  his  own  ends  than  the  popular  stock,  sir ; 
And  the  soldier  as  bones  for  himself  and  his  crones, 

Should  be  boned  like  a  traitor  himself  at  the  block,  sir." 

This  severe  response  of  Mobbing  Francis's  did  not  in  the 
least  ruffle  the  constitutional  calmness  of  Fighting  Attie;  but 
the  wary  Clifford,  seeing  that  Francis  had  lost  his  temper,  and 
watchful  over  the  least  sign  of  disturbance  among  the  com- 
pany, instantly  called  for  another  song,  and  Mobbing  Francis 
sullenly  knocked  down  Old  Bags. 

The  night  was  far  gone,  and  so  were  the  wits  of  the  honest 
tax-gatherers;  when  the  president  commanded  silence,  and 
the  convivialists  knew  that  their  chief  was  about  to  issue  forth 
the  orders  for  the  ensuing  term.  Nothing  could  be  better 
timed  than  such  directions, — during  merriment,  and  before 
oblivion. 

"Gentlemen !"  said  the  captain,  "I  will  now,  with  your  leave, 
impart  to  you  all  the  plans  I  have  formed  for  each.  You,  At- 
tie, shall  repair  to  London:  be. the  Windsor  road  and  the  pur- 
lieus of  Pimlico  your  especial  care.  Look  you,  my  hero,  to 
these  letters;  they  will  apprise  you  of  much  work:  I  need  not 
caution  you  to  silence.  Like  the  oyster,  you  never  open  your 
mouth  but  for  something.— Honest  Old  Bags,  a  rich  grazier 
will  be  in  Smithfield  on  Thursday;  his  name  is  Hodges,  and 
he  will  have  somewhat  like  a  thousand  pounds  in  his  pouch. 
He  is  green,  fresh,  and  avaricious;  offer  to  assist  him  in  de- 
frauding his  neighbors  in  a  bargain,  and  cease  not  till  thou 
hast  done  that  with  him  which  he  wished  to  do  to  others.  Be — 
excellent  old  man — like  the  frog-fish  which  fishes  for  other 
fishes  with  two  horns  that  resemble  baits :  the  prey  dart  at  the 
horns  and  are  down  the  throat  in  an  instant! — For  thee  dear- 
est Jem,  these  letters  announce  a  prize :  fat  is  Parson  Pliant ! 
full  is  his  purse;  and  he  rides  from  Henley  to  Oxford  on  Fri- 
day— I  need  say  no  more !  As  for  the  rest  of  you,  gentlemen, 
on  this  paper  you  will  see  your  destinations  fixed.  I  warrant 


I&2  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

you,  ye  will  find  enough  work  till  we  meet  again  this  day  three 
months.  Myself,  Augustus  Tomlinson,  and  Ned  Pepper,  remain 
at  Bath ;  we  have  business  in  hand,  gentlemen,  of  paramount 
importance ;  should  you  by  accident  meet  us,  never  acknow- 
ledge us — we  are  incog. ;  striking  at  high  game,  and  putting 
on  falcons'  plumes  to  do  it  in  character — you  understand ;  but 
this  accident  can  scarcely  occur,  for  none  of  you  will  remain 
at  Bath;  by  to-morrow  night,  may  the  road  receive  you.  And 
now,  gentlemen,  speed  the  glass,  and  I'll  give  you  a  sentiment 
by  way  of  a  spur  to  it : 

'  Much  sweeter  than  honey 
Is  other  men's  money  ! ' " 

Our  hero's  maxim  was  received  with  all  the  enthusiasm  which 
agreeable  truisms  usually  create.  And  old  Mr.  Bags  rose  to  ad- 
dress the  chair;  unhappily  for  the  edification  of  the  audience, 
the  veteran's  foot  slipped  before  he  had  proceeded  farther  than 
"Mr.  President,"  he  fell  to  the  earth  with  a  sort  of  reel: 

"  Like  shooting  stars,  he  fell  to  rise  no  more  !  " 

His  body  became  a  capital  footstool  for  the  luxurious  Pepper. 
Now  Augustus  Tomlinson  and  Clifford,  exchanging  looks,  took 
every  possible  pains  to  promote  the  hilarity  of  the  evening; 
and,  before  the  third  hour  of  morning  had  sounded,  they  had 
the  satisfaction  of  witnessing  the  effects  of  their  benevolent 
labors  in  the  prostrate  forms  of  all  their  companions.  Long 
Ned,  naturally  more  capacious  than  the  rest,  succumbed  the 
last. 

"As  leaves  of   trees,"  said  the  chairman,  waving  his  hand — 

"  As  leaves  of  trees  the  race  of  man  is  found, 

Now  fresh  -with  dew,  now  withering  on  the  ground." 

"Well  said,  my  Hector  of  Highways!"  cried  Tomlinson;  and 
then  helping  himself  to  the  wine,  while  he  employed  his  legs  in 
removing  the  supine  forms  of  Scarlet  Jem  and  Long  Ned,  he 
continued  the  Homeric  quotation,  with  a  pompous  and  self- 
gratulatory  tone, — 

"  So  flourish  these  when  those  have  passed  away  !  " 

"We  managed  to  get  rid  of  our  friends,"  began   Clifford — 

"Like  Whigs  in  place,"   interrupted  the  politician. 

"Right,  Tomlinson,  thanks  to  the  milder  properties  of  our 
drink,  and  perchance  to  the  stronger  qualities  of  our  heads ; 
and  now  tell  me,  my  friend,  what  think  you  of  our  chance  of 
success?  Shall  we  catch  an  heiress  or  not?" 

"Why  really, "said  Tomlinson,  "women  are  like  those  calcu- 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  183 

lations  in  arithmetic,  which  one  can  never  bring  to  an  exact 
account ;  for  my  part,  I  shall  stuit  my  calves,  and  look  out  for 
a  widow.  You,  my  good  fellow,  seem  to  stand  a  fair  chance 
with  Miss — " 

"Oh,  name  her  not!"  cried  Clifford,  coloring,  even  through 
the  flush  which  wine  had  spread  over  his  countenance.  "Ours 
are  not  the  lips  by  which  her  name  should  be  breathed ;  and 
faith,  when  I  think  of  her,  I  do  it  anonymously." 

"What,  have  you  ever  thought  of  her  before  this  evening?" 

"Yes,  for  months,"  answered  Clifford.  "You  remember 
some  time  ago,  when  we  formed  the  plan  for  robbing  Lord 
Mauleverer,  how,  rather  for  frolic  than  profit,  you  robbed  Dr. 
Slopperton  of  Warlock,  while  I  compassionately  walked  home 
with  the  old  gentleman.  Well,  at  the  parson's  house,  I  met 
Miss  Brandon;  mind,  if  I  speak  of  her  by  name,  you  must 
not;  and,  by  Heaven! — but  I  won't  swear, — I  accompanied 
her  home.  You  know,"  before  morning  we  robbed  Lord  Maul- 
everer ;  the  affair  made  a  noise,  and  I  feared  to  endanger  you 
all  if  I  appeared  in  the  vicinity  of  the  robbery.  Since  then, 
business  diverted  my  thoughts ;  we  formed  the  plan  of  trying  a 
matrimonial  speculation  at  Bath.  I  came  hither — guess  my 
surprise  at  seeing  her — " 

"And  your  delight,"  added  Tomlinson,  "at  hearing  she  is 
as  rich  as  she  is  pretty." 

"No!"  answered  Clifford,  quickly ;  "that  thought  gives  me 
no  pleasure  — you  stare.  I  will  try  and  explain.  You  know, 
dear  Tomlinson,  I'm  not  much  of  a  canter,  and  yet  my  heart 
shrinks  when  I  look  on  that  innocent  face,  and  hear  that  soft 
happy  voice,  and  think  that  my  love  to  her  can  be  only  ruin 
and  disgrace ;  nay,  that  my  very  address  is  contamination,  and 
my  very  glance  towards  her  an  insult." 

"Hey-day!"  quoth  Tomlinson ;  "have  you  been  under  my 
instructions,  and  learned  the  true  value  of  words?  and  can  you 
have  any  scruples  left  on  so  easy  a  point  of  conscience?  True, 
you  may  call  your  representing  yourself  to  her  as  an  unpro- 
fessional gentleman,  and  so  winning  her  affections,  deceit ;  but 
why  call  it  deceit  when  a  'genius  for  intrigue'  is  so  much  neater 
a  phrase :  in  like  manner,  by  marrying  the  young  lady,  if  you 
say  you  have  ruined  her,  you  justly  deserve  to  be  annihilated; 
but  why  not  say  you  have  'saved  yourself,'  and  then,  my  dear 
fellow,  you  will  have  done  the  most  justifiable  thing  in  the 
world." 

"Pish,  man!"  said  Clifford,  peevishly;  "none  of  thy  soph- 
isms and  sneers!" 


184  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

"By  the  soul  of  Sir  Edward  Coke,  I  am  serious!— -But  look 
you,  my  friend,  this  is  not  a  matter  where  it  is  convenient  to 
have  a  tender-footed  conscience.  You  see  these  fellows  on 
the  ground ! — all  d — d  clever,  and  so  forth ;  but  you  and  I  are 
of  a  different  order.  I  have  had  a  classical  education,  seen 
the  world,  and  mixed  in  decent  society;  you,  too,  had  not 
'been  long  a  member  of  our  club,  before  you  distinguished  your- 
self above  us  all.  Fortune  smiled  on  your  youthful  audacity. 
You  grew  particular  in  horses  and  dress,  frequented  public 
haunts,  and  being  a  deuced  good-looking  fellow,  with  an  in- 
born air  of  gentility,  and  some  sort  of  education,  you  became 
sufficiently  well  received  to  acquire,  in  a  short  time,  the  man- 
ner and  tone  of  a — what  shall  I  say, — a  gentleman,  and  the 
taste  to  like  suitable  associates.  This  is  my  case  too !  De- 
spite our  labors  for  the  public  weal,  the  ungrateful  dogs  see 
that  we  are  above  them;  a  single  envious  breast  is  sufficient  to 
give  us  to  the  hangman;  we  have  agreed  that  we  are  in  danger, 
we  have  agreed  to  make  an  honorable  retreat !  we  cannot  do  so 
without  money ;  you  know  the  vulgar  distich  among  our  set. 
Nothing  can  be  truer — 

"  '  Hanging  is  'nation 

More  nice  than  starvation  ! ' 

You  will  not  carry  off  some  of  the  common  stock,  though  I 
think  you  justly  might,  considering  how  much  you  have  put 
into  it.  What,  then,  shall  we  do?  Work  we  cannot!  Beg  we 
will  not !  And  between  you  and  me,  we  are  cursedly  extrava- 
gant! What  remains  but  marriage?" 

"It  is  true!"  said  Clifford,  with  a  half  sigh. 

"You  may  well  sigh,  my  good  fellow;  marriage  is  a  lacka- 
daisical proceeding  at  best ;  but  there  is  no  resource :  and  now 
when  you  have  got  a  liking  to  a  young  lady  who  is  as  rich  as  a 
she-Crcesus,  and  so  gilded  the  pill  as  bright  as  a  lord  mayor's 
coach,  what  the  devil  have  you  to  do  with  scruples?" 

Clifford  made  no  answer,  and  there  was  a  long  pause ;  per- 
haps he  would  not  have  spoken  so  frankly  as  he  had  done  if 
the  wine  had  not  opened  his  heart. 

"How  proud,"  renewed  Tomlinson,  "the  good  old  matron 
at  Thames  Court  will  be  if  you  marry  a  lady !  You  have  not 
seen  her  lately?" 

"Not  for  years,"  answered  our  hero.  "Poor  old  soul!  I 
believe  that  she  is  well  in  health,  and  I  take  care  that  she 
should  not  be  poor  in  pocket." 

"But  why  not  visit  her?     Perhaps,  like  all  great  men,  espe- 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  185 

cially  of  a  liberal  turn  of  mind,  you  are  ashamed  of  old 
friends,  eh?" 

"My  good  fellow,  is  that  like  me?  Why,  you  know  the 
beaux  of  our  set  look  askant  on  me  for  not  keeping  up  my  dig- 
nity, robbing  only  in  company  with  well-dressed  gentlemen, 
and  swindling  under  the  name  of  a  lord's  nephew;  no,  my 
reasons  are  these:  first,  you  must  know,  that  the  old  dame 
had  set  her  heart  on  my  turning  out  an  honest  man." 

''And  so  you  have!"  interrupted  Augustus;  "honest  to 
your  party:  what  more  would  you  have  from  either  prig  or 
politician?" 

"I  believe,"  continued  Clifford,  not  heeding  the  interrup- 
tion, "that  my  poor  mother,  before  she  died,  desired  that  I 
might  be  reared  honestly,  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you, 
Dame  Lobkins  is  a  conscientious  woman  in  her  way — it  is  not 
her  fault  if  I  have  turned  out  as  I  have  done.  Now  I  know 
well  that  it  would  grieve  her  to  the  quick  to  see  me  what 
I  am.  Secondly,  my  friend,  under  my  new  names,  various  as 
they  are, — Jackson  and  Howard,  Russell  and  Pigwiggen,  Vil- 
liers  and  Gotobed,  Cavendish  and  Solomons, — you  may  well 
suppose  that  the  good  persons  in  the  neighborhood  of  Thames 
Court  have  no  suspicion  that  the  adventurous  and  accom- 
plished ruffler,  at  present  captain  of  this  district,  under  the 
new  appellation  of  Lovett,  is  in  reality  no  other  than  the  obscure 
and  surnameless  Paul  of  the  Mug.  Now  you  and  I,  Augus- 
tus, have  read  human  nature,  though  in  the  black  letter,  and  I 
know  well  that  were  I  to  make  my  appearance  in  Thames 
Court,  and  were  the  old  lady — (as  she  certainly  would,  not 
from  unkindness,  but  insobriety,  not  that  she  loves  me  less, 
but  heavy  wet  more) — to  divulge  the  secret  of  that  ap- 
pearance— " 

"You  know  well,"  interrupted  the  vivacious  Tomlinson, 
"that  the  identity  of  your  former  meanness  with  your  present 
greatness  would  be  easily  traced;  the  envy  and  jealousy  of 
your  early  friends  aroused ;  a  hint  of  your  whereabout  and  your 
aliases  given  to  the  police,  and  yourself  grabbed,  with  a  slight 
possibility  of  a  hempen  consummation." 

"You  conceive  me  exactly! "answered  Clifford;  "the  fact  is, 
that  I  have  observed  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  our  bravest  fel- 
lows have  been  taken  off  by  the  treachery  of  some  early 
sweetheart  or  the  envy  of  some  boyish  friend.  My  destiny  is 
not  yet  fixed;  I  am  worthy  of  better  things  than  a  ride  in 
the  cart  with  a  nosegay  in  my  hand,  and  though  I  care  not 
much  about  death  in  itself,  I  am  resolved,  if  possible,  not  to 


186  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

die  a  highwayman:  hence  my  caution,  and  that  prudential 
care  for  secrecy  and  safe  asylums,  which  men,  less  wise  than 
you,  have  so  often  thought  an  unnatural  contrast  to  my  con- 
duct on  the  road." 

"Fools!"  said  the  philosophical  Tomlinson,  "what  has  the 
bravery  of  a  warrior  to  do  with  his  insuring  his  house  from 
fire?" 

"However,"  said  Clifford,  "I  send  my  good  nurse  a  fine  gift 
every  now  and  then  to  assure  her  of  my  safety  and  thus,  not- 
withstanding my  absence,  I  show  my  affection  by  my  pres- 
ents— excuse  a  pun." 

"And  have  you  never  been  detected  by  any  of  your  quon- 
dam associates?" 

"Never! — remember  in  what  a  much  more  elevated  sphere  of 
life  I  have  been  thrown ;  and  who  could  recognize  the  scamp 
Paul  with  a  fustian  jacket  in  gentleman  Paul  with  a  laced  waist- 
coat? Besides,  I  have  diligently  avoided  every  place  where  I 
was  likely  to  encounter  those  who  saw  me  in  childhood.  You 
know  how  little  I  frequent  flash  houses,  and  how  scrupulous 
I  am  in  admitting  new  confederates  into  our  band;  you  and 
Pepper  are  the  only  two  of  my  associates — (save  my  prottge, 
as  you  express  it,  who  never  deserts  the  cave) — that  possess  a 
knowledge  of  my  identity  with  the  lost  Paul ;  and  as  ye  have  both 
taken  that  dread  oath  to  silence,  which  to  disobey,  until,  in- 
deed, I  be  in  the  gaol  or  on  the  gibbet,  is  almost  to  be  assas- 
sinated, I  consider  my  secret  is  little  likely  to  be  broken,  save 
with  my  own  consent." 

"True,"  said  Augustus,  nodding,  "one  more  glass,  and  to  bed, 
Mr.  Chairman." 

"I  pledge  you,  my  friend;  our  last  glass  shall  be  philan- 
thropically  quaffed ;  'All  fools,  and  may  their  money  soon  be 
parted ! '  ' 

"All  fools!"  cried  Tomlinson,  filling  a  bumper;  "but  I 
quarrel  with  the  wisdom  of  your  toast;  may  fools  be  rich, 
and  rogues  will  never  be  poor !  I  would  make  a  better  liveli- 
hood of  a  rich  fool  than  a  landed  estate." 

So  saying,  the  contemplative  and  ever-sagacious  Tomlinson 
tossed  off  his  bumper ;  and  the  pair,  having  kindly  rolled  by 
pedal  applications  the  body  of  Long  Ned  into  a  safe  and  quiet 
corner  of  the  room,  mounted  the  stairs, arm-in-arm,  in  search  of 
somnambular  accommodations. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  187 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  That  contrast  of  the  hardened  and  mature, 

The  calm  brow  brooding  o'er  the  project  dark, 
With  the  clear  loving  heart,  and  spirit  pure 
Of  youth — I  love — yet,  hating,  love  to  mark  !  " 

— H.  FLETCHER. 

ON  the  forenoon  of  the  day  after  the  ball,  the  carriage  of 
William  Brandon,  packed  and  prepared,  was  at  the  door  of  his 
abode  at  Bath ;  meanwhile,  the  lawyer  was  closeted  with  his 
brother.  "My  dear  Joseph,"  said  the  barrister,  "I  do  not 
leave  you  without  being  fully  sensible  of  your  kindness  evinced 
to  me,  both  in  coming  hither,  contrary  to  your  habits,  and  ac- 
companying me  everywhere,  despite  of  your  tastes." 

"Mention  it  not,  my  dear  William,"  said  the  kind-hearted 
squire,  "for  your  delightful  society  is  to  me  the  most  agree- 
able— (and  that's  what  I  can  say  of  very  few  people  like  you ; 
for,  for  my  own  part,  I  generally  find  the  cleverest  men  the 
most  unpleasant} — in  the  world !  And  I  think  lawyers  in  par- 
ticular— (very  different,  indeed,  from  your  tribe  you  are/) — 
perfectly  intolerable!" 

"I  have  now,"  said  Brandon,  who  with  his  usual  nervous 
quickness  of  action  was  walking  with  rapid  strides  to  and  fro 
the  apartment,  and  scarcely  noted  his  brother's  compliment — 
"I  have  now  another  favor  to  request  of  you. — Consider  this 
house  and  these  servants  yours,  for  the  next  month  or  two  at 
least.  Don't  interrupt  me — it  is  no  compliment — I  speak  for 
our  family  benefit."  And  then  seating  himself  next  to  his 
brother's  arm-chair,  for  a  fit  of  the  gout  made  the  squire  a  close 
prisoner,  Brandon  unfolded  to  his  brother  his  cherished  scheme 
of  marrying  Lucy  to  Lord  Mauleverer.  Notwithstanding  the 
constancy  of  the  earl's  attentions  to  the  heiress,  the  honest 
squire  had  never  dreamt  of  their  palpable  object;  and  he  was 
overpowered  with  surprise  when  he  heard  the  lawyer's  expec- 
tations. 

"But,  my  dear  brother,"  he  began,  "so  great  a  match  for 
my  Lucy,  the  Lord- Lieutenant  of  the  Coun — " 

"And  what  of  that?"  cried  Brandon  proudly,  and  interrupt- 
ing his  brother;  "is  not  the  race  of  Brandon,  which  has 
matched  its  scions  with  royalty,  far  nobler  than  that  of  the 
upstart  stock  of  Mauleverer? — What  is  there  presumptuous  in 
the  hope  that  the  descendants  of  the  Earls  of  Suffolk  should 
regild  a  faded  name  with  some  of  the  precious  dust  of  the 
quondam  silversmiths  of  London! — Besides."  he  continued, 


l88  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

after  a  pause,  "Lucy  will  be  rich — very  rich — and  before  two 
years  my  rank  may  possibly  be  of  the  same  order  as  Maul- 
everer's!" 

The  squire  stared;  and  Brandon,  not  giving  him  time  to 
answer,  resumed.  It  is  needless  to  detail  the  conversation ; 
suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  artful  barrister  did  not  leave  his 
brother  till  he  had  gained  his  point — till  Joseph  Brandon  had 
promised  to  remain  at  Bath  in  possession  of  the  house  and  es- 
tablishment of  his  brother;  to  throw  no  impediment  on  the  suit 
of  Mauleverer;  to  cultivate  society  as  before;  and,  above  all, 
not  to  alarm  Lucy,  who  evidently  did  not  yet  favor  Mauleverer 
exclusively,  by  hinting  to  her  the  hopes  and  expectations  of 
her  uncle  and  father.  Brandon,  now  taking  leave  of  his 
brother,  mounted  to  the  drawing-room  in  search  of  Lucy. 
He  found  her  leaning  over  the  gilt  cage  of  one  of  her  feath- 
ered favorites,  and  speaking  to  the  little  inmate  in  that  pretty 
and  playful  language  in  which  all  thoughts,  innocent,  yet  fond, 
should  be  clothed.  So  beautiful  did  Lucy  seem,  as  she  was 
thus  engaged  in  her  girlish  and  caressing  employment,  and  so 
utterly  unlike  one  meet  to  be  the  instrument  of  ambitious  designs, 
and  the  sacrifice  of  worldly  calculations,  that  Brandon  paused, 
suddenly  smitten  at  heart,  as  he  beheld  her:  he  was  not,  how- 
ever, slow  in  recovering  himself;  he  approached.  "Happy 
he,"  said  the  man  of  the  world,  "for  whom  caresses  and  words 
like  these  are  reserved!" 

Lucy  turned.  "It  is  ill!"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  bird, 
which  sat  with  its  feathers  stiff  and  erect,  mute  and  heedless 
even  of  that  voice  which  was  as  musical  as  its  own. 

"Poor  prisoner!"  said  Brandon ;  "even  gilt  cages  and  sweet 
tones  cannot  compensate  to  thee  for  the  loss  of  the  air  and  the 
wild  woods!" 

"But,"  said  Lucy  anxiously,  "it  is  not  confinement  which 
makes  it  ill!  If  you  think  so,  I  will  release  it  instantly." 

"How  long  have  you  had  it?"  asked  Brandon. 

"For  three  years!"  said  Lucy. 

'"And  is  it  your  chief  favorite?" 

"Yes;  it  does  not  sing  so  prettily  as  the  other — but  it  is  far 
more  sensible,  and  so  affectionate." 

"Can  you  release  it  then?"  asked  Brandon,  smiling,  "would 
it  not  be  better  to  see  it  die  in  your  custody,  than  to  let  it  live 
and  to  see  it  no  more?" 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  said  Lucy,  eagerly;  "when  I  love  any  one — 
any  thing — I  wish  that  to  be  happy,  not  me!" 

As  she  said  this,  she  took  the  bird  from  the  cage ;  and  bear- 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  189 

ing  it  to  the  open  window,  kissed  it  and  held  it  on  her  hand  in 
the  air.  The  poor  bird  turned  a  languid  and  sickly  eye  around 
it,  as  if  the  sight  of  the  crowded  houses  and  busy  streets  pre- 
sented nothing  familiar  or  inviting;  and  it  was  not  till  Lucy, 
with  a  tender  courage,  shook  it  gently  from  her,  that  it  availed 
itself  of  the  proffered  liberty.  It  flew  first  to  an  opposite  bal- 
cony ;  and  then  recovering  from  a  short,  and,  as  it  were,  sur- 
prised pause,  took  a  brief  circuit  above  the  houses ;  and  after 
disappearing  for  a  few  minutes,  flew  back,  circled  the  window, 
and  re-entering,  settled  once  more  on  the  fair  form  of  its  mis- 
tress, and  nestled  into  her  bosom. 

Lucy  covered  it  with  kisses.  "You  see  it  will  not  leave 
me!"  said  she. 

"Who  can?"  said  the  uncle  warmly,  charmed  for  the  mo- 
ment from  every  thought  but  that  of  kindness  for  the  young 
and  soft  creature  before  him — "Who  can,"  he  repeated  with  a 
sigh,  "but  an  old  and  withered  ascetic  like  myself?  I  must 
leave  you  indeed ;  see,  my  carriage  is  at  the  door !  Will  my 
beautiful  niece,  among  the  gayeties  that  surround  her,  conde- 
scend now  and  then  to  remember  the  crabbed  lawyer,  and  as- 
sure him  by  a  line  of  her  happiness  and  health?  Though 
I  rarely  write  any  notes  but  those  upon  cases,  you,  at  least, 
may  be  sure  of  an  answer.  And  tell  me,  Lucy,  if  there  be  in 
all  this  city  one  so  foolish  as  to  think  that  these  idle  gems,  use- 
ful only  as  a  vent  for  my  pride  in  you,  can  add  a  single  charm 
to  a  beauty  above  all  ornament?" 

So  saying,  Brandon  produced  a  leathern  case ;  and  touching 
a  spring,  the  imperial  flash  of  diamonds,  which  would  have 
made  glad  many  a  patrician  heart,  broke  dazzlingly  on  Lucy's 
eyes. 

"No  thanks,  Lucy,"  said  Brandon,  in  answer  to  his  niece's 
disclaiming  and  shrinking  gratitude;  "I  do  honor  to  myself, 
not  you;  and  now  bless  you,  my  dear  girl.  Farewell!  Should 
any  occasion  present  itself  in  which  you  require  an  immediate 
adviser,  at  once  kind  and  wise,  I  beseech  you,  my  dearest  Lucy, 
as  a  parting  request,  to  have  no  scruples  in  consulting  Lord 
Mauleverer.  Besides  his  friendship  for  me,  he  is  much  in- 
terested in  you,  and  you  may  consult  him  with  the  more  safety 
and  assurance,  because  (and  the  lawyer  smiled)  he  is  perhaps 
the  only  man  in  the  world  whom  my  Lucy  could  not  make  in 
love  with  her.  His  gallantry  may  appear  adulation,  but  it  is 
never  akin  to  love.  Promise  me,  that  you  will  not  hesitate  in 
this?" 

Lucy  gave  the  promise  readily,  and  Brandon  continued  in 


IQO  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

a  careless  tone — "I  hear  that  you  danced  last  night  with  a 
young  gentleman  whom  no  one  knew,  and  whose  companions 
bore  a  very  strange  appearance.  In  a  place  like  Bath,  society 
is  too  mixed  not  to  render  the  greatest  caution  in  forming 
acquaintances  absolutely  necessary.  You  must  pardon  me.  my 
dearest  niece,  if  I  remark  that  a  young  lady  owes  it  not  only  to 
herself,  but  to  her  relations,  to  observe  the  most  rigid  circum- 
spection of  conduct.  This  is  a  wicked  world,  and  the  peach- 
like  bloom  of  character  is  easily  rubbed  away.  In  these  points 
Mauleverer  can  be  of  great  use  to  you.  His  knowledge  of 
character — his  penetration  into  men — and  his  tact  in  manners — 
are  unerring.  Pray,  be  guided  by  him:  whomsoever  he  warns 
you  against,  you  may  be  sure  is  unworthy  of  your  acquain- 
tance. God  bless  you!  you  will  write  to  me  often  and  frankly, 
dear  Lucy ;  tell  me  all  that  happens  to  you — all  that  interests, 
nay,  all  that  displeases." 

Brandon  then,  who  had  seemingly  disregarded  the  blushes 
with  which,  during  his  speech,  Lucy's  cheeks  had  been  spread, 
folded  his  niece  in  his  arms,  and  hurried,  as  if  to  hide  his  feel- 
ings, into  his  carriage.  When  the  horses  had  turned  the  street, 
he  directed  the  postilions  to  stop  at  Lord  Mauleverer 's. 
"Now,"  said  he  to  himself,  "if  I  can  get  this  clever  coxcomb 
to  second  my  schemes,  and  play  according  to  my  game,  and 
not  according  to  his  own  vanity,  I  shall  have  a  knight  of  the 
garter  for  my  nephew-in-law!" 

Meanwhile  Lucy,  all  in  tears,  for  she  loved  her  uncle  greatly, 
ran  down  to  the  squire  to  show  him  Brandon's  magnificent 
present. 

"Ah!"  said  the  squire,  with  a  sigh,  "few  men  were  born  with 
more  good,  generous,  and  great  qualities — (pity  only  that  his 
chief  desire  was  to  get  on  in  the  world ;  for  my  part,  I  think 
•no  motive  makes  greater  and  more  cold-blooded  rogues) — than  my 
brother  William!" 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

"  Why  did  she  love  him  ? — Curious  fool,  be  still ! 
Is  human  love  the  growth  of  human  will  ? 
To  her  he  might  be  gentleness  !  " — LORD  BYRON. 

IN  three  weeks  from  the  time  of  his  arrival,  Captain  Clifford 
was  the  most  admired  man  in  Bath.  It  is  true,  the  gentlemen, 
who  have  a  quicker  tact  as  to  the  respectability  of  their  own 
sex  than  women,  might  have  looked  a  little  shy  upon  him,  had 
he  not  himself  especially  shunned  appearing  intrusive,  and  in- 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  IQI 

deed  rather  avoided  the  society  of  men  than  courted  it ;  so  that 
after  he  had  fought  a  duel  with  a  baronet  (the  son  of  a  shoe- 
maker), who  called  him  one  Clifford ;  and  had  exhibited  a  flea- 
bitten  horse,  allowed  to  be  the  finest  in  Bath,  he  rose  insensibly 
into  a  certain  degree  of  respect  with  the  one  sex  as  well  as 
popularity  with  the  other.  But  what  always  attracted  and  kept 
alive  suspicion,  was  his  intimacy  with  so  peculiar  and  dashing 
a  gentleman  as  Mr.  Edward  Pepper.  People  could  get  over  a 
certain  frankness  in  Clifford's  address,  but  the  most  lenient 
were  astounded  by  the  swagger  of  Long  Ned.  Clifford,  how- 
ever, not  insensible  to  the  ridicule  attached  to  his  acquaintance, 
soon  managed  to  pursue  his  occupations  alone ;  nay,  he  took 
a  lodging  to  himself,  and  left  Long  Ned  and  Augustus  Tomlin- 
son  (the  latter  to  operate  as  a  check  on  the  former)  to  the  quiet 
enjoyment  of  the  hair-dresser's  apartments.  He  himself  at- 
tended all  public  gayeties ;  and  his  mien,  and  the  appearance 
of  wealth  which  he  maintained,  procured  him  access  into  sev- 
eral private  circles,  which  pretended  to  be  exclusive :  as  if 
people  who  had  daughters  ever  could  be  exclusive !  Many  were 
the  kind  looks,  nor  few  the  inviting  letters,  which  he  received ; 
and  if  his  sole  object  had  been  to  marry  an  heiress,  he  would 
have  found  no  difficulty  in  attaining  it.  But  he  devoted  him- 
self entirely  to  Lucy  Brandon  ;  and  to  win  one  glance  from  her 
he  would  have  renounced  all  the  heiresses  in  the  kingdom. 
Most  fortunately  for  him,  Mauleverer,  whose  health  was  easily 
deranged,  had  fallen  ill  the  very  day  William  Brandon  left 
Bath ;  and  his  lordship  was  thus  rendered  unable  to  watch  the 
movements  of  Lucy,  and  undermine,  or  totally  prevent,  the 
success  of  her  lover.  Miss  Brandon,  indeed,  had  at  first, 
melted  by  the  kindness  of  her  uncle,  and  struck  with  the  sense 
of  his  admonition  (for  she  was  no  self-willed  young  lady,  who 
was  determined  to  be  in  love),  received  Captain  Clifford's 
advances  with  a  coldness  which,  from  her  manner  the  first 
evening  they  had  met  at  Bath,  occasioned  him  no  less  surprise 
than  mortification.  He  retreated,  and  recoiled  on  the  squire, 
who,  patient  and  bold,  as  usual,  was  sequestered  in  his  favor- 
ite corner.  By  accident,  Clifford  trod  on  the  squire's  gouty 
digital ;  and  in  apologizing  for  the  offence,  was  so  struck  by 
the  old  gentleman's  good-natured  peculiarity  of  expressing  him- 
self, that  without  knowing  who  he  was,  he  entered  into  con- 
versation with  him.  There  was  an  off-hand  sort  of  liveliness 
and  candor,  not  to  say  wit,  about  Clifford,  which  always  had  a 
charm  for  the  elderly,  who  generally  like  frankness  above  all 
the  cardinal  virtues ;  the  squire  was  exceedingly  pleased  with 


192  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

him.  The  acquaintance,  once  begun,  was  naturally  continued 
without  difficulty  when  Clifford  ascertained  who  was  his  new 
frienci;  and  next  morning,  meeting  in  the  pump-room,  the 
squire  asked  Clifford  to  dinner.  The  entree  to  the  house  thus 
gained,  the  rest  was  easy.  Long  before  Mauleverer  recovered 
his  health,  the  mischief  effected  by  his  rival  was  almost  beyond 
redress ;  and  the  heart  of  the  pure,  the  simple,  the  affectionate 
Lucy  Brandon  was  more  than  half  lost  to  the  lawless  and  vagrant 
cavalier  who  officiates  as  the  hero  of  this  tale. 

One  morning,  Clifford  and  Augustus  strolled  out  together. 
"Let  us,"  said  the  latter,  who  was  in  a  melancholy  mood, 
"leave  the  busy  streets,  and  indulge  in  a  philosophical  conver- 
sation on  the  nature  of  man,  while  we  are  enjoying  a  little 
fresh  air  in  the  country."  Clifford  assented  to  the  proposal, 
and  the  pair  slowly  sauntered  up  one  of  the  hills  that  surround 
the  city  of  Bladud. 

"There  are  certain  moments,"  said  Tomlinson,  looking  pen- 
sively down  at  his  kerseymere  gaiters,  "when  we  are  like  the 
fox  in  the  nursery  rhyme,  'The  fox  had  a  wound,  he  could  not 
tell  where' — we  feel  extremely  unhappy,  and  we  cannot  tell 
why! — a  dark  and  sad  melancholy  grows  over  us — we  shun  the 
face  of  man — we  wrap  ourselves  in  our  thoughts  like  silk- 
worms— we  mutter  fag-ends  of  dismal  songs — tears  come  into 
our  eyes — we  recall  all  the  misfortunes  that  have  ever  hap- 
pened to  us — we  stoop  in  our  gait,  and  bury  our  hands  in  our 
breeches-pockets — we  say,  'what  is  life? — a  stone  to  be  shied 
into  a  horsepond!'  We  pine  for  some  congenial  heart — and 
have  an  itching  desire  to  talk  prodigiously  about  ourselves:  all 
other  subjects  seem  weary,  stale,  and  unprofitable — we  feel  as 
if  a  fly  could  knock  us  down,  and  are  in  a  humor  to  fall  in 
love  and  make  a  very  sad  piece  of  business  of  it.  Yet  with  all 
this  weakness  we  have  at  these  moments,  a  finer  opinion  of 
ourselves  than  we  ever  had  before.  We  call  our  megrims  the 
melancholy  of  a  sublime  soul — the  yearnings  of  an  indigestion 
we  denominate  yearnings  after  immortality — nay,  sometimes  'a 
proof  of  the  nature  of  the  soul!'  May  I  find  some  biographer 
who  understands  such  sensations  well,  and  may  he  style  those 
melting  emotions  the  offspring  of  the  poetical  character,*  which 
in  reality,  are  the  offspring  of — a  mutton-chop!" 

*  Vide  Moore's  Lift  of  Byron.  In  which  it  is  satisfactorily  shown  that,  if  a  man  fast 
forty-eight  hours,  then  eat  three  lobsters,  and  drink  Heaven  knows  how  many  bottles  of 
claret — if,  when  he  wakes  the  next  morning,  he  sees  himself  abused  as  a  demon,  by  half'the 
periodicals  of  the  country — if,  in  a  word,  he  be  broken  in  his  health,  irregular  in  his  habits, 
unfortunate  in  his  affairs,  unhappy  in  his  home — and  if  then  he  should  be  so  extremely  ec- 
centric as  to  be  low-spirited  and  misanthropical,  the  low  spirits  and  the  misanthropy  are  by 
no  means  to  be  attributed  to  the  above  agreeable  circumstances,  but — God  wot — to  the 
"  poetical  character  "  ! 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  193 

"You  jest  pleasantly  enough  on  your  low  spirits,"  said  Clif- 
ford; "but  I  have  a  cause  for  mine." 

"What  then?"  cried  Tomlinson.  "So  much  the  easier  is  it 
to  cure  them.  The  mind  can  cure  the  evils  that  spring  from 
the  mind ;  it  is  only  a  fool,  and  a  quack,  and  a  driveller,  when 
it  professes  to  heal  the  evils  that  spring  from  the  body:  my 
blue  devils  spring  from  the  body — consequently,  my  mind, 
which,  as  you  know,  is  a  particularly  wise  mind,  wrestles  not 
against  them.  Tell  me  frankly,"  renewed  Augustus,  after  a 
pause,  "do  you  ever  repent?  Do  you  ever  think,  if  you  had 
been  a  shop-boy  with  a  white  apron  about  your  middle,  that 
you  would  have  been  a  happier  and  better  member  of  society 
than  you  now  are?" 

"Repent!"  said  Clifford  fiercely;  and  his  answer  opened 
more  of  his  secret  heart,  its  motives,  its  reasonings,  and  its 
peculiarities,  than  were  often  discernible.  "Repent — that  is 
the  idlest  word  in  our  language.  No, — the  moment  I  repent, 
that  moment  I  reform !  Never  can  it  seem  to  me  an  atone- 
ment for  crime  merely  to  regret  it — my  mind  would  lead  me 
not  to  regret,  but  to  repair! — Repent! — no,  not  yet.  The  older 
I  grow,  the  more  I  see  of  men  and  of  the  callings  of  social  life — 
the  more  I,  an  open  knave,  sicken  at  the  glossed  and  covert 
dishonesties  around.  I  acknowledge  no  allegiance  to  society. 
From  my  birth  to  this  hour,  I  have  received  no  single  favor 
from  its  customs  or  its  laws;  openly  I  war  against  it,  and 
patiently  will  I  meet  its  revenge.  This  may  be  crime;  but  it 
looks  light  in  my  eyes  when  I  gaze  around,  and  survey  on  all 
sides  the  masked  traitors  who  acknowledge  large  debts  to 
society, — who  profess  to  obey  its  laws — adore  its  institutions — 
and,  above  all — oh,  how  righteously! — attack  all  those  who 
attack  it,  and  who  yet  lie,  and  cheat,  and  defraud,  and  pecu- 
late— publicly  reaping  all  the  comforts,  privately  filching  all 
the  profits.  Repent! — of  what?  I  come  into  the  world  friend- 
less and  poor — I  find  a  body  of  laws  hostile  to  the  friendless 
and  the  poor!  To  those  laws  hostile  to  me,  then,  I  acknowl- 
edge hostility  in  my  turn.  Between  us  are  the  conditions  of 
war.  Let  them  expose  a  weakness — I  insist  on  my  right  to 
«>eize  the  advantage;  let  them  defeat  me,  and  I  allow  their 
right  to  destroy."* 

"Passion,"  said  Augustus  coolly,  "is  the  usual  enemy  of 
reason — in  your  case  it  is  the  friend!" 

The  pair  had  now  gained  the  summit  of  a  hill  which  com- 

*  The  author  need  not,  he  hopes,  observe,  that  these  sentiments  are  Mr.  Paul  Clifford's— 
not  his. 


194  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

manded  a  view  of  the  city  below.  Here  Augustus,  who  was  a 
little  short-winded,  paused  to  recover  breath.  As  soon  as  he 
had  done  so,  he  pointed  with  his  forefinger  to  the  scene  beneath, 
and  said  enthusiastically — '  'What  a  subject  for  contemplation ! ' ' 

Clifford  was  about  to  reply,  when  suddenly  the  sound  of 
laughter  and  voices  was  heard  behind — "Let  us  fly!"  cried 
Augustus;  "on  this  day  of  spleen  man  delights  me  not — nor 
woman  either." 

"Stay!"  said  Clifford,  in  a  trembling  accent;  for  among 
those  voices  he  recognized  one  which  had  already  acquired 
over  him  an  irresistible  and  bewitching  power.  Augustus 
sighed,  and  reluctantly  remained  motionless.  Presently  a 
winding  in  the  road  brought  into  view  a  party  of  pleasure, 
some  on  foot,  some  on  horseback,  others  in  the  little  vehicles 
which  even  at  that  day  haunted  watering-places,  and  called 
themselves  "Flies"  or  "Swallows." 

But  among  the  gay  procession  Clifford  had  only  eyes  for 
one !  Walking  with  that  elastic  step  which  so  rarely  survives 
the  first  epoch  of  youth,  by  the  side  of  the  heavy  chair  in  which 
her  father  was  drawn,  the  fair  beauty  of  Lucy  Brandon  threw, 
at  least  in  the  eyes  of  her  lover,  a  magic  and  a  lustre  over  the 
whole  group.  He  stood  for  a  moment,  stilling  the  heart  that 
leaped  at  her  bright  looks  and  the  gladness  of  her  innocent 
laugh ;  and  then  recovering  himself,  he  walked  slowly,  and 
with  a  certain  consciousness  of  the  effect  of  his  own  singularly 
handsome  person,  towards  the  party.  The  good  squire  re- 
ceived him  with  his  usual  kindness,  and  informed  him,  accord- 
ing to  that  lucidus  ordo  which  he  so  especially  favored,  of  the 
whole  particulars  of  their  excursion.  There  was  something 
worthy  of  an  artist's  sketch  in  the  scene  of  that  moment — the 
old  squire  in  his  chair,  with  his  benevolent  face  turned  towards 
Clifford,  and  his  hands  resting  on  his  cane — Clifford  himself 
bowing  down  his  stately  head  to  hear  the  details  of  the  father — 
the  beautiful  daughter  on  the  other  side  of  the  chair,  her  laugh 
suddenly  stilled,  her  gait  insensibly  more  composed,  and  blush 
chasing  blush  over  the  smooth  and  peach-like  loveliness  of  her 
cheek, — the  party,  of  all  sizes,  ages,  and  attire,  affording 
ample  scope  for  the  caricaturist;  and  the  pensive  figure  of 
Augustus  Tomlinson  (who,  by  the  by,  was  exceedingly  like 
Liston)  standing  apart  from  the  rest,  on  the  brow  of  the  hill 
where  Clifford  had  left  him,  and  moralizing  on  the  motley  pro- 
cession, with  one  hand  hid  in  his  waistcoat,  and  the  other 
caressing  his  chin,  which  slowly  and  pendulously  with  the  rest 
of  his  head  moved  up  and  down. 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  195 

As  the  party  approached  the  brow  of  the  hill,  the  view  of  the 
city  below  was  so  striking,  that  there  was  a  general  pause  for 
the  purpose  of  survey.  One  young  lady,  in  particular,  drew 
forth  her  pencil,  and  began  sketching,  while  her  mamma  looked 
complacently  on,  and  abstractedly  devoured  a  sandwich.  It 
was  at  this  time,  in  the  general  pause,  that  Clifford  and  Lucy 
found  themselves — Heaven  knows  how! — next  to  each  other, 
and  at  a  sufficient  distance  from  the  squire  and  the  rest  of  the 
party  to  feel,  in  some  measure,  alone.  There  was  a  silence  in 
both  which  neither  dared  to  break ;  when  Lucy,  after  looking 
at  and  toying  with  a  flower  that  she  had  brought  from  the  place 
which  the  party  had  been  to  see,  accidentally  dropped  it ;  and 
Clifford  and  herself  stooping  at  the  same  moment  to  recover  it, 
their  hands  met.  Involuntarily,  Clifford  detained  the  soft  fin- 
gers in  his  own;  his  eyes,  that  encountered  hers,  so  spell- 
bound and  arrested  them  that  for  once  they  did  not  sink  be- 
neath his  gaze;  his  lips  moved,  but  many  and  vehement  emo- 
tions so  suffocated  his  voice  that  no  sound  escaped  them.  But 
all  the  heart  was  in  the  eyes  of  each ;  that  moment  fixed  their 
destinies.  Henceforth  there  was  an  era  from  which  they  dated 
a  new  existence;  a  nucleus  around  which  their  thoughts,  their 
remembrances,  and  their  passions  clung.  The  great  gulf  was 
passed;  they  stood  on  the  same  shore ;  and  felt  that,  though 
still  apart  and  disunited,  on  that  shore  was  no  living  creature 
but  themselves!  Meanwhile,  Augustus  Tomlinson,  on  finding 
himself  surrounded  by  persons  eager  to  gaze  and  to  listen, 
broke  from  his  moodiness  and  reserve.  Looking  full  at  his 
next  neighbor,  and  flourishing  his  right  hand  in  the  air,  till  he 
suffered  it  to  rest  in  the  direction  of  the  houses  and  chimneys 
below,  he  repeated  that  moral  exclamation  which  had  been 
wasted  on  Clifford,  with  a  more  solemn  and  a  less  passionate 
gravity  than  before : 

"What  a  subject,  ma'am,  for  contemplation!" 

"Very  sensibly  said,  indeed,  sir,"  said  the  lady  addressed, 
who  was  rather  of  a  serious  turn. 

"I  never,"  resumed  Augustus  in  a  louder  key,  and  looking 
round  for  auditors, — "I  never  see  a  great  town  from  the  tops 
of  a  hill,  without  thinking  of  an  apothecary's  shop!" 

"Lord,  sir!"  said  the  lady.  Tomlinson's  end  was  gained — 
struck  with  the  quaintness  of  the  notion,  a  little  crowd  gathered 
instantly  around  him,  to  hear  it  farther  developed. 

"Of  an  apothecary's  shop,  ma'am!"  repeated  Tomlinson. 
"There  lie  your  simples,  and  your  purges,  and  your  cordials, 
and  your  poisons;  all  things  to  heal,  and  to  strengthen,  and  to 


196  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

destroy.  There  are  drugs  enough  in  that  collection  to  save 
you,  to  cure  you  all ;  but  none  of  you  know  how  to  use  them, 
nor  what  medicines  to  ask  for,  nor  what  portions  to  take;  so 
that  the  greater  part  of  you  swallow  a  wrong  dose,  and  die  of 
the  remedy ! ' ' 

"But  if  the  town  be  the  apothecary's  shop,  what,  in  the  plan 
of  your  idea,  stands  for  the  apothecary?"  asked  an  old  gentle- 
man, who  perceived  at  what  Tomlinson  was  driving. 

"The  apothecary,  sir,"  answered  Augustus,  stealing  his 
notion  from  Clifford,  and  sinking  his  voice,  lest  the  true  pro- 
prietor should  overhear  him — Clifford  was  otherwise  em- 
ployed— "The  apothecary,  sir,  is  the  LAW!  It  is  the  law 
that  stands  behind  the  counter,  and  dispenses  to  each  man  the 
dose  he  should  take.  To  the  poor,  it  gives  bad  drugs  gratui- 
tously; to  the  rich,  pills  to  stimulate  the  appetite;  to  the  lat- 
ter, premiums  for  luxury ;  to  the  former,  only  speedy  refuges 
from  life.  Alas!  either  your  apothecary  is  but  an  ignorant 
quack,  or  his  science  itself  is  but  in  its  cradle.  He  blunders 
as  much  as  you  would  do  if  left  to  your  own  selection.  Those 
who  have  recourse  to  him  seldom  speak  gratefully  of  his 
skill.  He  relieves  you,  it  is  true — but  of  your  money,  not 
your  malady;  and  the  only  branch  of  his  profession  in  which  he 
is  an  adept,  is  that  which  enables  him  to  bleed  you ! — O  Man- 
kind!" continued  Augustus,  "what  noble  creatures  you  ought 
to  be !  You  have  keys  to  all  sciences,  all  arts,  all  mysteries, 
but  one !  You  have  not  a  notion  how  you  ought  to  be  gov- 
erned!— you  cannot  frame  a  tolerable  law  for  the  life  and  sou! 
of  you !  You  make  yourselves  as  uncomfortable  as  you  can  by 
all  sorts  of  galling  and  vexatious  institutions,  and  you  throw 
the  blame  upon  'Fate.'  You  lay  down  rules  it  is  impossible  to 
comprehend,  much  less  to  obey;  and  you  call  each  other 
monsters,  because  you  cannot  conquer  the  impossibility !  You 
invent  all  sorts  of  vices,  under  pretence  of  making  laws  for 
preserving  virtue ;  and  the  anomalous  artificialities  of  conduct 
yourselves  produce,  you  may  say  you  are  born  with;  you 
make  a  machine  by  the  perversest  art  you  can  think  of,  and  you 
call  it,  with  a  sigh,  'Human  Nature.'  With  a  host  of  good 
dispositions  struggling  at  your  breasts,  you  insist  upon  libelling 
the  Almighty,  and  declaring  that  He  meant  you  to  be  wicked. 
Nay,  you  even  call  the  man  mischievous  and  seditious  who 
begs  and  implores  you  to  be  one  jot  better  than  you  are. — O 
Mankind!  you  are  like  a  nosegay  bought  at  Covent  Garden. 
The  flowers  are  lovely,  the  scent  delicious, — mark  that  glorious 
hue!  contemplate  that  bursting  petal!— hpw  beautiful,  how 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  197 

redolent  of  health,  of  nature,  of  the  dew  and  breath  and  bless- 
ing of  Heaven,  are  you  all!  But  as  for  the  dirty  piece  of 
string  that  ties  you  together,  one  would  think  you  had  picked 
it  out  of  the  kennel!" 

So  saying,  Tomlinson  turned  on  his  heel,  broke  away  from 
the  crowd,  and  solemnly  descended  the  hill.  The  party  of  pleas- 
ure slowly  followed ;  and  Clifford,  receiving  an  invitation  from 
the  squire  to  partake  of  his  family  dinner,  walked  by  the  side  of 
Lucy,  and  felt  as  if  his  spirit  were  drunk  with  the  airs  of  Eden. 

A  brother  squire,  who,  among  the  gayeties  of  Bath,  was  almost 
as  forlorn  as  Joseph  Brandon  himself,  partook  of  the  Lord  of 
Warlock's  hospitality.  When  the  three  gentlemen  adjourned 
to  the  drawing-room,  the  two  elder  sat  down  to  a  game  at 
backgammon,  and  Clifford  was  left  to  the  undisturbed  enjoy- 
ment of  Lucy's  conversation.  She  was  sitting  by  the  window 
when  Clifford  joined  her.  On  the  table  by  her  side  were  scat- 
tered books,  the  charm  of  which  (they  were  chiefly  poetry)  she 
had  only  of  late  learned  to  discover;  there  also  were  strewn 
various  little  masterpieces  of  female  ingenuity,  in  which  the 
fairy  fingers  of  Lucy  Brandon  were  especially  formed  to  excel 
The  shades  of  evening  were  rapidly  darkening  over  the  empty 
streets ;  and  in  the  sky,  which  was  cloudless  and  transparently 
clear,  the  stars  came  gradually  out  one  by  one  until 


"  As  water  does  a  sponge,  so  their  soft  light 
Filled  the  void,  hollow,  universal  air." 


Beautiful  Evening!  (if  we,  as  well  as  Augustus  Tomlinson, 
may  indulge  in  an  apostrophe) — Beautiful  Evening!  For  thee 
all  poets  have  had  a  song,  and  surrounded  thee  with  rills,  and 
waterfalls,  and  dews,  and  flowers,  and  sheep,  and  bats,  and 
melancholy,  and  owls;  yet  we  must  confess  that  to  us,  who  in 
this  very  sentimental  age  are  a  bustling,  worldly,  hard-minded 
person,  jostling  our  neighbors,  and  thinking  of  the  main 
chance, — to  us,  thou  art  never  so  charming,  as  when  we  meet 
thee  walking  in  thy  gray  hood,  through  the  emptying  streets, 
and  among  the  dying  sounds  of  a  city.  We  love  to  feel  the 
stillness,  where  all,  two  hours  back,  was  clamor.  We  love  to 
see  the  dingy  abodes,  of  Trade  and  Luxury,  those  restless 
patients  of  earth's  constant  fever,  contrasted  and  canopied  by 
a  heaven  full  of  purity,  and  quietness,  and  peace.  We  love  to 
fill  our  thought  with  speculations  on  man, — even  though  the 
man  be  the  muffin-man, — rather  than  with  inanimate  ob- 
jects— hills  and  streams — things  to  dream  about,  not  to  medi- 
tate on.  Man  is  the  subject  of  far  nobler  contemplation,  .of  fat 


^98  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

ttiore  glowing  hope,  of  a  far  purer  and  loftier  vein  of  sentiment, 
than  all  the  "floods  and  fells"  in  the  universe;  and  that, 
sweet  Evening!  is  one  reason  why  we  like  that  the  earnest  and 
lender  thoughts  thou  excitest  within  us  should  be  rather  sur- 
rounded by  the  labors  and  tokens  of  our  species,  than  by 
sheep,  and  bats,  and  melancholy,  and  owls.  But  whether, 
most  blessed  Evening !  thou  delightest  us  in  the  country  or  in 
the  town,  thou  equally  disposest  us  to  make  and  to  feel  love! — 
thou  art  the  cause  of  more  marriages,  and  more  divorces,  than 
any  other  time  in  the  twenty-four  hours.  Eyes,  that  were  com- 
mon to  us  before,  touched  by  thy  enchanting  and  magic  shad- 
ows, become  inspired,  and  preach  to  us  of  heaven.  A  softness 
settles  on  features  that  were  harsh  to  us  while  the  sun  shone; 
a  mellow  "light  of  love"  reposes  on  the  complexion,  which  by 
day  we  would  have  steeped  "full  fathom  five"  in  a  sea  of  Mrs. 
Gowland's  lotion. — What,  then,  thou  modest  hypocrite!  to 
those  who  already  and  deeply  love — what,  then,  of  danger  and 
of  paradise  dost  thou  bring? 

Silent,  and  stilling  the  breath  which  heaved  in  both,  quick 
and  fitfully,  Lucy  and  Clifford  sat  together.  The  streets  were 
utterly  deserted,  and  the  loneliness,  as  they  looked  below, 
made  them  feel  the  more  intensely  not  only  the  emotions  which 
swelled  within  them,  but  the  undefined  and  electric  sympathy 
which,  in  uniting  them,  divided  them  from  the  world.  The 
quiet  around  was  broken  by  a  distant  strain  of  rude  music ;  and 
as  it  came  nearer,  two  forms  of  no  poetical  order  grew  visible : 
the  one  was  a  poor  blind  man,  who  was  drawing  from  his  flute 
tones  in  which  the  melancholy  beauty  of  the  air  compensated 
for  any  deficiency  (the  deficiency  was  but  slight)  in  the  execu- 
tion. A  woman  much  younger  than  the  musician,  and  with 
something  of  beauty  in  her  countenance,  accompanied  him, 
holding  a  tattered  hat,  and  looking  wistfully  up  at  the  windows 
of  the  silent  street.  We  said  two  forms — we  did  the  injustice 
of  forgetfulness  to  another — a  rugged  and  simple  friend,  it  is 
true,  but  one  that  both  minstrel  and  wife  had  many  and  mov- 
ing reasons  to  love.  This  was  a  little  wiry  terrier,  with  dark 
piercing  eyes,  that  glanced  quickly  and  sagaciously  in  all  quar- 
ters from  beneath  the  shaggy  covert  that  surrounded  them; 
slowly  the  animal  moved  onward,  pulling  gently  against  the 
string  by  which  he  was  held,  and  by  which  he  guided  his  mas- 
ter. Once  his  fidelity  was  tempted:  another  dog  invited  him 
to  play;  the  poor  terrier  looked  anxiously  and  doubtingly 
round,  and  then,  uttering  a  low  growl  of  denial,  pursued 
"  The  noiseless  tenor  of  his  way." 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  199 

The  little  procession  stopped  beneath  the  window  where 
Lucy  and  Clifford  sat ;  for  the  quick  eye  of  the  woman  had 
perceived  them,  and  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  blind  man's  arm 
and  whispered  him.  He  took  the  hint,  and  changed  his  air 
into  one  of  love.  Clifford  glanced  at  Lucy — her  cheek  was 
dyed  in  blushes.  The  air  was  over,^another  succeeded — it  was 
of  the  same  kind;  a  third — the  burthen  was  still  unaltered; 
and  then  Clifford  threw  into  the  street  a  piece  of  money,  and 
the  dog  wagged  his  abridged  and  dwarfed  tail,  and  darting  for- 
ward, picked  it  up  in  his  mouth ;  and  the  woman  (she  had  a 
kind  face ! )  patted  the  officious  friend,  ev.en  before  she  thanked 
the  donor,  and  then  she  dropped  the  money  with  a  cheering 
word  or  two  into  the  blind  man's  pocket,  and  the  three  wan- 
derers moved  slowly  on.  Presently  they  came  to  a  place  where 
the  street  had  been  mended,  and  the  stones  lay  scattered  about. 
Here  the  woman  no  longer  trusted  to  the  dog's  guidance, but 
anxiously  hastened  to  the  musician,  and  led  him  with  evident 
tenderness  and  minute  watchfulness  over  the  rugged  way. 
When  they  had  passed  the  danger,  the  man  stopped;  and 
before  he  released  the  hand  which  had  guided  him,  he  pressed 
it  gratefully,  and  then  both  the  husband  and  wife  stooped  down 
and  caressed  the  dog.  This  little  scene — one  of  those  rough 
copies  of  the  loveliness  of  human  affections,  of  which  so  many 
are  scattered  about  the  highways  of  the  world — both  the  lovers 
had  involuntarily  watched;  and  now  as  they  withdrew  their 
eyes — those  eyes  settled  on  each  other — Lucy's  swam  in  tears. 

"To  be  loved  and  tended  by  the  one  I  love,"  said  Clifford, 
in  a  low  voice,  "I  would  walk  blind  and  barefoot  over  the 
whole  earth!" 

Lucy  sighed  very  gently ;  and  placing  her  pretty  hands  (the 
one  clasped  over  the  other)  upon  her  knee,  looked  down  wist- 
fully on  them,  but  made  no  answer.  Clifford  drew  his  chair 
nearer,  and  gazed  on  her  as  she  sat ;  the  long,  dark  eyelash 
drooping  over  her  eyes,  and  contrasting  the  ivory  lids;  her  deli- 
cate profile  half  turned  from  him,  and  borrowing  a  more  touch- 
ing beauty  from  the  soft  light  that  dwelt  upon  it ;  and  her  full 
yet  still  scarcely  developed  bosom  heaving  at  thoughts  which  she 
did  not  analyze,  but  was  content  to  feel  at  once  vague  and  de- 
licious :  he  gazed  and  his  lips  trembled — he  longed  to  speak — 
he  longed  to  say  but  those  words  which  convey  what  volumes 
have  endeavored  to  express,  and  have  only  weakened  by  de- 
tail— "/  love."  How  he  resisted  the  yearnings  of  his  heart, 
we  know  not — but  he  did  resist;  and  Lucy,  after  a  confused 
and  embarassed  pause,  took  up  one  of  the  poems  on  the  table, 


200  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

and  asked  him  some  questions  about  a  particular  passage  in  an 
old  ballad  which  he  had  once  pointed  to  her  notice.  The  pas- 
sage related  to  a  border  chief,  one  of  the  Armstrongs  of  old, 
who,  having  been  seized  by  the  English  and  condemned  to 
death,  vented  his  last  feelings  in  a  passionate  address  to  his 
own  home — his  rude  tower — and  his  newly  wedded  bride. 
"Do  you  believe,  said  Lucy,  as  their  conversation  began  to 
flow,  "that  one  so  lawless  and  eager  for  bloodshed  and  strife, 
as  this  robber  is  described  to  be,  could  be  so  capable  of  soft 
affections?" 

"I  do,"  said  Clifford;  "because  he  was  not  sensible  that 
he  was  as  criminal  as  you  esteem  him.  If  a  man  cherish  the 
idea  that  his  actions  are  not  evil,  he  will  retain  at  his  heart  all 
its  better  and  gentler  sensations  as  much  as  if  he  had  never 
sinned.  The  savage  murders  his  enemy,  and  when  he  returns 
home  is  not  the  less  devoted  to  his  friend,  or  the  less  anxious 
for  his  children.  To  harden  and  embrute  the  kindly  disposi- 
tions, we  must  not  only  indulge  in  guilt,  but  feel  that  we  are 
guilty.  Oh !  many  that  the  world  load  with  their  opprobrium 
are  capable  of  acts — nay,  have  committed  acts,  which  in  others 
the  world  would  reverence  and  adore.  Would  you  know 
whether  a  man's  heart  be  shut  to  the  power  of  love ;  ask  what 
he  is — not  to  his  foes,  but  to  his  friends !  Crime,  too,"  contin- 
ued Clifford,  speaking  fast  and  vehemently,  while  his  eyes 
flashed  and  the  dark  blood  rushed  to  his  cheek — "Crime — what 
is  crime?  Men  embody  their  worst  prejudices,  their  most  evil 
passions,  in  a  heterogeneous  and  contradictory  code,  and 
whatever  breaks  this  code  they  term  a  crime.  When  they  make 
no  distinction  in  the  penalty — that  is  to  say,  in  the  estima- 
tion— awarded  both  to  murder  and  to  a  petty  theft  imposed  on 
the  weak  will  by  famine,  we  ask  nothing  else  to  convince  us 
that  they  are  ignorant  of  the  very  nature  of  guilt,  and  that  they 
make  up  in  ferocity  for  the  want  of  wisdom." 

Lucy  looked  in  alarm  at  the  animated  and  fiery  countenance 
of  the  speaker.  Clifford  recovered  himself  after  a  moment's 
pause,  and  rose  from  his  seat,  with  the  gay  and  frank  laugh 
which  made  one  of  his  peculiar  characteristics.  "There  is  a 
singularity  in  politics,  Miss  Brandon,"  said  he,  "which  I  dare 
say  you  have  often  observed,  viz.,  that  those  who  are  least 
important,  are  always  most  noisy;  and  that  the  chief  people 
who  lose  their  temper,  are  those  who  have  nothing  to  gain  in 
return." 

As  Clifford  spoke,  the  doors  were  thrown  open,  and  some 
visitors  to  Miss  Brandon  were  announced.  The  good  squire 


fcAUL    CLIFFORD.  2OI 

was  still  immersed  in  the  vicissitudes  of  his  game,  and  the  sole 
task  of  receiving  and  entertaining  "the  company,"  as  the 
chambermaids  have  it,  fell,  as  usual,  upon  Lucy.  Fortunately 
for  her,  Clifford  was  one  of  those  rare  persons  who  possess 
eminently  the  talents  of  society.  There  was  much  in  his  gay 
and  gallant  temperament,  accompanied  as  it  was  with  senti- 
ment and  ardor,  that  resembled  our  beau  ideal  of  those  cheva- 
liers, ordinarily  peculiar  to  the  Continent— heroes  equally  in 
the  drawing-room  and  the  field.  Observant,  courteous,  witty, 
and  versed  in  the  various  accomplishments  that  combine  (that 
most  unfrequent  of  all  unions!)  vivacity  with  grace,  he  was 
especially  formed  for  that  brilliant  world  from  which  his  cir- 
cumstances tended  to  exclude  him.  Under  different  auspices, 
he  might  have  been — Pooh!  We  are  running  into  a  most 
pointless  commonplace ;  what  might  any  man  be  under  auspi- 
ces different  from  those  by  which  his  life  has  been  guided! 
Music  soon  succeeded  to  conversation,  and  Clifford's  voice 
was  of  necessity  put  into  requisition.  Miss  Brandon  had  just 
risen  from  the  harpsichord,  as  he  sat  down  to  perform  his  part ; 
and  she  stood  by  him  with  the  rest  of  the  group  while  he  sung. 
Only  twice  his  eye  stole  to  that  spot  which  her  breath  and  form 
made  sacred  to  him ;  once  when  he  began,  and  once  when  he  con- 
cluded his  song.  Perhaps  the  recollection  of  their  conversa- 
tion inspired  him ;  certainly  it  dwelt  upon  his  mind  at  the  mo- 
ment— 'threw  a  richer  flush  over  his  brow,  and  infused  a  more 
meaning  and  heartfelt  softness  into  his  tone. 

STANZAS. 

"  When  I  leave  thee,  oh  !  ask  not  the  world  what  that  heart 

Which  adores  thee  to  others  may  be  ? 
I  know  that  I  sin  when  from  thee  I  depart, 
But  my  guilt  shall  not  light  upon  thee  ! 

My  life  is  a  river  which  glasses  a  ray 

That  hath  deign'd  to  descend  from  above  ; 
Whatever  the  banks  that  o'ershadow  its  way, 

It  mirrors  the  light  of  thy  love. 

Though  the  waves  may  run  high  when  the  night  wind  awakes, 

And  hurries  the  stream  to  its  fall  ; 
Though  broken  and  wild  be  the  billows  it  makes, 

Thine  image  still  trembles  on  all  !  " 

While  this  ominous  love  between  Clifford  and  Lucy  was  thus 
finding  fresh  food  in  every  interview  and  every  opportunity, 
the  unfortunate  Mauleverer,  firmly  persuaded  that  his  com- 
plaint was  a  relapse  of  what  he  termed  the  "Warlock  dyspep- 
sia," was  waging  dire  war  with  the  remains  of  the  beef  and 


202  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

pudding,  which  he  tearfully  assured  his  physicians  "were  lurk- 
ing in  his  constitution."  As  Mauleverer,  though  complaisant — 
like  most  men  of  unmistakable  rank — to  all  his  acquain- 
tances, whatever  might  be  their  grade, — possessed  but  very  few 
friends  intimate  enough  to  enter  his  sick  chamber,  and  none 
of  that  few  were  at  Bath,  it  will  readily  be  perceived  that  he 
was  in  blissful  ignorance  of  the  growing  fortunes  of  his  rival ; 
and  to  say  the  exact  truth,  illness,  which  makes  a  man's 
thoughts  turn  very  much  upon  himself,  banished  many  of  the 
most  tender  ideas  usually  floating  in  his  mind  around  the 
image  of  Lucy  Brandon.  His  pill  superseded  his  passion ;  and 
he  felt  that  there  are  draughts  in  the  world  more  powerful  in 
their  effects  than  those  in  the  phials  of  Alcidonis.*  He  very 
often  thought,  it  is  true,  how  pleasant  it  would  be  for  Lucy  to 
smooth  his  pillow,  and  Lucy  to  prepare  that  mixture ;  but  then 
Mauleverer  had  an  excellent  valet,  who  hoped  to  play  the  part 
enacted  by  Gil  Bias  towards  the  honest  Licentiate;  and  to 
nurse  a  legacy  while  he  was  nursing  his  master.  And  the  Earl, 
who  was  tolerably  good-tempered,  was  forced  to  confess  that 
it  would  be  scarcely  possible  for  any  one  "to  know  his  ways 
better  than  Smoothson."  Thus,  during  his  illness,  the  fair 
form  of  his  intended  bride  little  troubled  the  peace  of  the  noble 
adorer.  And  it  was  not  till  he  found  himself  able  to  eat  three 
good  dinners  consecutively,  with  a  tolerable  appetite,  that 
Mauleverer  recollected  that  he  was  violently  in  love.  As  soon 
as  this  idea  was  fully  reinstated  in  his  memory,  and  he  had 
been  permitted  by  his  doctor  to  allow  himself  "a  little  cheerful 
society,"  Mauleverer  resolved  to  go  to  the  rooms  for  an  hour 
or  two. 

It  may  be  observed  that  most  great  personages  have  some 
favorite  place,  some  cherished  Baiae,  at  which  they  love  to 
throw  off  their  state,  and  to  play  the  amiable  instead  of  the 
splendid ;  and  Bath  at  that  time,  from  its  gayety,  its  ease,  the 
variety  of  character  to  be  found  in  its  haunts,  and  the  obliging 
manner  in  which  such  characters  exposed  themselves  to  ridi- 
cule, was  exactly  the  place  calculated  to  please  a  man  like 
Mauleverer,  who  loved  at  once  to  be  admired  and  to  satirize. 
He  was  therefore  an  idolized  person  at  the  city  of  Bladud ; 
and  as  he  entered  the  rooms  he  was  surrounded  by  a  whole 
band  of  imitators  and  sycophants,  delighted  to  find  his  lord- 
ihip  looking  so  much  better  and  declaring  himself  so  convales- 
cent. As  soon  as  the  Earl  had  bowed  and  smiled,  and  shaken 
rtands  sufficiently  to  sustain  his  reputation,  he  sauntered  to- 

*  See  Marmontel's  pretty  tale  of  Les  Quatres  Flafons. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  203 

wards  the  dancers  in  search  of  Lucy.  He  found  her  ntjt  only 
exactly  in  the  same  spot  in  which  he  had  last  beheld  Tier,  but 
dancing  with  exactly  the  same  partner  who  had  before  pro- 
voked all  the  gallant  nobleman's  jealousy  and  wrath.  Maul- 
everer,  though  not  by  any  means  addicted  to  preparing  his 
compliments  beforehand,  had  just  been  conning  a  delicate 
speech  for  Lucy ;  but  no  sooner  did  the  person  of  her  partner 
flash  on  him  than  the  whole  flattery  vanished  at  once  from  his 
recollection.  He  felt  himself  grow  pale;  and  when  Lucy 
turned,  and,  seeing  him  near,  addressed  him  in  the  anxious  and 
soft  tone  which  she  thought  due  to  her  uncle's  friend  on  his 
recovery,  Mauleverer  bowed,  confused  and  silent;  and  that 
green-eyed  passion,  which  would  have  convulsed  the  mind  of  a 
true  lover,  altering  a  little  the  course  of  its  fury,  effectually 
disturbed  the  manner  of  the  courtier. 

Retreating  to  an  obscure  part  of  the  room,  where  he  could 
see  all  without  being  conspicuous,  Mauleverer  now  employed 
himself  in  watching  the  motions  and  looks  of  the  young  pair. 
He  was  naturally  a  penetrating  and  quick  observer,  and  in  this- 
instance  jealousy  sharpened  his  talents ;  he  saw  enough  to  con- 
vince him  that  Lucy  was  already  attached  to  Clifford ;  and 
being,  by  that  conviction,  fully  persuaded  that  Lucy  was  nec- 
essary to  his  own  happiness,  he  resolved  to  lose  not  a  moment 
in  banishing  Captain  Clifford  from  her  presence,  or  at  least  in 
instituting  such  inquiries  into  that  gentleman's  relatives,  rank, 
and  respectability  as  would,  he  hoped,  render  such  banish- 
ment a  necessary  consequence  of  the  research. 

Fraught  with  this  determination,  Mauleverer  repaired  at  once 
to  the  retreat  of  the  squire,  and  engaging  him  in  conversation, 
bluntly  asked  him,  "Who  the  deuce  Miss  Brandon  was  danc- 
ing with?  ' 

The  squire,  a  little  piqued  at  this  brusquerie,  replied  by  a 
long  eulogium  on  Paul;  and  Mauleverer,  after  hearing  it 
throughout  with  the  blandest  smile  imaginable,  told  the  squire, 
very  politely,  that  he  was  sure  Mr.  Brandon's  good  nature  had 
misled  him.  "Clifford!"  said  he,  repeating  the  name, — "Clif- 
ford !  It  is  one  of  those  names  which  are  particularly  selected 
by  persons  nobody  knows ;  first,  because  the  name  is  good, 
and,  secondly,  because  it  is  common.  My  long  and  dear 
friendship  with  your  brother  makes  me  feel  peculiarly  anxious 
on  any  point  relative  to  his  niece ;  and,  indeed,  my  dear  Will- 
iam, overrating,  perhaps,  my  knowledge  of  the  world  and  my 
influence  in  society, — but  not  my  affection  for  him, — besought 
me  to  assume  the  liberty  of  esteeming  myself  a  friend,  nay, 


204  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

even  a  relation  of  yours  and  Miss  Brandon's ;  so  that  I  trust 
you  do  not  consider  my  caution  impertinent." 

The  flattered  squire  assured  him  that  he  was  particularly 
honored,  so  far  from  deeming  his  lordship — (which  never 
could  be  the  case  with  people  so  distinguished  as  his  lordship 
was,  especially  /) — impertinent. 

Lord  Mauleverer,  encouraged  by  this  speech,  artfully  re- 
newed, and  succeeded,  if  not  in  convincing  the  squire  that  the 
handsome  captain  was  a  suspicious  character,  at  least  in  per- 
suading him  that  common  prudence  required  that  he  should 
find  out  exactly  who  the  handsome  captain  was,  especially  as 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  dining  with  the  squire  thrice  a  week,  and 
dancing  with  Lucy  every  night. 

"See,"  said  Mauleverer,  "he  approaches  you  now;  I  will 
retreat  to  the  chair  by  the  fireplace,  and  you  shall  cross-exam- 
ine him — I  have  no  doubt  you  will  do  it  with  the  utmost 
delicacy." 

So  saying,  Mauleverer  took  possession  of  a  seat  where  he 
was  not  absolutely  beyond  hearing  (slightly  deaf  as  he  was)  of 
the  ensuing  colloquy,  though  the  position  of  his  seat  screened 
him  from  sight.  Mauleverer  was  esteemed  a  man  of  the  most 
punctilious  honor  in  private  life,  and  he  would  not  have  been 
seen  in  the  act  of  listening  to  other  people's  conversation  for 
the  world. 

Hemming  with  an  air  and  resettling  himself  as  Clifford  ap- 
proached, the  squire  thus  skillfully  commenced  the  attack: 
"Ah,  ha!  my  good  Captain  Clifford,  and  how  do  you  do?  I 
saw  you — (and  I  am  very  glad,  my  friend,  as  every  one  else  is, 
to  see  you} — at  a  distance.  And  where  have  you  left  my 
daughter?" 

"Miss  Brandon  is  dancing  with  Mr.  Muskwell,  sir,"  an- 
swered Clifford. 

"Oh!  she  is!  Mr.  Muskwell — humph!  Good  family  the 
Muskwells — came  from  Primrose  Hall.  Pray,  Captain, — not 
that  I  want  to  know  for  my  own  sake,  for  I  am  a  strange,  odd 
person.  I  believe,  and  I  am  thoroughly  convinced — (some 
people  are  censorious,  and  others,  thank  God,  are  not!) — of 
your  respectability, — Avhat  family  do  you  come  from?  You 
won't  think  my — my  caution  impertinent?"  added  the  shrewd 
old  gentleman,  borrowing  that  phrase  which  he  thought  so 
friendly  in  the  mouth  of  Lord  Mauleverer. 

Clifford  colored  for  a  moment,  but  replied  with  a  quiet  arch- 
ness of  look,  "Family!  oh,  my  dear  sir,  I  come  from  an  old 
family, — a  very  old  family  indeed." 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  205 

"So  I  always  thought;  and  in  what  part  of  the  world?" 

"Scotland,  sir — all  our  family  come  from  Scotland;  viz.  all 
who  live  long  do — the  rest  die  young." 

"Ay,  particular  air  d^es  not  agree  with  particular  constitu- 
tions. I,  for  instance,  could  not  live  in  all  countries;  not — 
you  take  me — in  the  North!" 

"Few  honest  men  can  live  there,"  said  Clifford  drily. 

"And,"  resumed  the  squire,  a  little  embarrassed  by  the 
nature  of  his  task,  and  the  cool  assurance  of  his  young  friend : 

"And  pray,  Captain  Clifford,  what  regiment  do  you  be- 
long to?" 

"Regiment? — oh,  the  Rifles !"  answered  Clifford.  ("Deuce 
is  in  me,"  muttered  he — "if  I  can  resist  a  jest,  though  I  break 
my  neck  over  it.") 

"A  very  gallant  body  of  men!"  said  the  squire. 

"No  doubt  of  that,  sir!"  rejoined  Clifford. 

"And  do  you  think,  Captain  Clifford,"  renewed  the  squire, 
"that  it  is  a  good  corps  for  getting  on." 

"It  is  rather  a  bad  one  for  getting  off,"  muttered  the  Cap- 
tain, and  then  aloud,  "Why,  we  have  not  much  interest  at 
court,  sir." 

"Oh!  but  then  there  is  a  wider  scope,  as  my  brother  the 
lawyer  says — and  no  man  knows  better — for  merit.  I  dare  say 
you  have  seen  many  a  man  elevated  from  the  ranks?" 

"Nothing  more  common,  sir,  than  such  elevation;  and  so 
great  is  the  virtue  of  our  corps,  that  I  have  also  known  not  a 
few  willing  to  transfer  the  honor  to  their  comrades." 

"You  don't  say  so!"  exclaimed  the  squire,  opening  his 
eyes  at  such  disinterested  magnanimity. 

"But,"  said  Clifford,  who  began  to  believe  he  might  carry 
the  equivoque  too  far,  and  who  thought,  despite  of  his  jesting, 
that  it  was  possible  to  strike  out  a  more  agreeable  vein  of  con- 
versation— "but,  sir,  if  you  remember,  you  have  not  yet  fin- 
ished that  youthful  hunting  adventure  of  yours,  when  the 
hounds  lost  at  Burnham  Copse." 

"Oh,  very  true,"  cried  the  squire,  quite  forgetting  his  late 
suspicions;  and  forthwith  he  began  a  story  that  promised  to  be 
as  long  as  the  chase  it  recorded.  So  charmed  was  he,  when  he 
had  finished  it,  with  the  character  of  the  gentleman  who  had 
listened  to  it  so  delightedly,  that  on  rejoining  Mauleverer  he 
told  the  Earl,  with  an  important  air,  that  he  had  strictly  exam- 
ined the  young  captain,  and  that  he  had  fully  convinced  him- 
self of  the  excellence  of  his  family,  as  well  as  the  rectitude  of 
his  morals.  Mauleverer  listened  with  a  countenance  of  polite 


206  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

incredulity;  he  had  heard  but  little  of  the  conversation  that 
had  taken  place  between  the  pair;  but  on  questioning  the 
squire  upon  sundry  particulars  of  Clifford's  birth,  parentage, 
and  property,  he  found  him  exactly  as  ignorant  as  before. 
The  courtier,  however,  seeing  further  expostulation  was  in 
vain,  contented  himself  with  patting  the  squire's  shoulder,  and 
saying,  with  a  mysterious  urbanity,  "Ah,  sir,  you  are  too 
good!" 

With  these  words  he  turned  on  his  heel,  and,  not  yet  despair- 
ing, sought  the  daughter.  He  found  Miss  Brandon  just  re- 
leased from  dancing,  and,  with  a  kind  of  paternal  gallantry,  he 
offered  his  arm  to  parade  the  apartments.  After  some  prelim- 
inary flourish,  and  reference,  for  the  thousandth  time,  to  his 
friendship  for  William  Brandon,  the  Earl  spoke  to  her  about 
that  "fine-looking  young  man  who  called  himself  Captain 
Clifford." 

Unfortunately  for  Mauleverer,  he  grew  a  little  too  unguarded, 
as  his  resentment  against  the  interference  of  Clifford  warmed 
with  his  language,  and  he  dropped  in  his  anger  one  or  two 
words  of  caution,  which  especially  offended  the  delicacy  of 
Miss  Brandon. 

"Take  care  how  I  encourage,  my  lord!"  said  Lucy,  with 
glowing  cheeks,  repeating  the  words  which  had  so  affronted 
her,  "I  really  must  beg  you — " 

"You  mean,  dear  Miss  Brandon,"  interrupted  Mauleverer, 
squeezing  her  hand  with  respectful  tenderness,  "that  you  must 
beg  me  to  apologize  for  my  inadvertent  expression.  I  do  most 
sincerely.  If  I  had  felt  less  interest  in  your  happiness,  believe 
me,  I  should  have  been  more  guarded  in  my  language." 

Miss  Brandon  bowed  stiffly,  and  the  courtier  saw,  with  secret 
rage,  that  the  country  beauty  was  not  easily  appeased,  even  by 
an  apology  from  Lord  Mauleverer.  "I  have  seen  the  time," 
thought  he,  "when  young  unmarried  ladies  would  have  deemed 
an  affront  from  me  an  honor!  They  would  have  gone  into 
hysterics  at  an  apology!"  Before  he  had  time  to  make  his 
peace,  the  squire  joined  them;  and  Lucy,  taking  her  father's 
arm,  expressed  her  wish  to  return  home.  The  squire  was  de- 
lighted at  the  proposition.  It  would  have  been  but  civil  in 
Mauleverer  to  offer  his  assistance  in  those  little  attentions  pre- 
paratory to  female  departure  from  balls.  He  hesitated  for  a 
moment — "It  keeps  one  so  long  in  those  cursed  thorough 
draughts,"  thought  he,  shivering.  "Besides,  it  is  just  possible 
that  I  may  not  marry  her,  and  it  is  no  good  risking  a  cold 
(above  all,  at  the  beginning  of  winter)  for  nothing!"  Fraught 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  267 

with  this  prudential  policy,  Mauleverer  then  resigned  Lucy  to 
her  father,  and  murmuring  in  her  ear  that  "her  displeasure 
made  him  the  most  wretched  of  men,"  concluded  his  adieu  by 
a  bow  penitentially  graceful. 

About  five  minutes  afterwards,  he  himself  withdrew.  As  he 
was  wrapping  his  corporeal  treasure  in  his  roquelaire  of  sables, 
previous  to  immersing  himself  in  his  chair,  he  had  the  mortifi- 
cation of  seeing  Lucy,  who  with  her  father,  from  some  cause 
or  other,  had  been  delayed  in  the  hall,  handed  to  the  carriage 
by  Captain  Clifford.  Had  the  Earl  watched  more  narrowly 
than  in  the  anxious  cares  due  to  himself  he  was  enabled  to  do, 
he  would,  to  his  consolation,  have  noted  that  Lucy  gave  her 
hand  with  an  averted  and  cool  air,  and  that  Clifford  s  expres- 
sive features  bore  rather  the  aspect  of  mortification  than 
triumph. 

He  did  not,  however,  see  more  than  the  action ;  and  as  he 
was  borne  homeward  with  his  flambeaux  and  footmen  preced- 
ing him,  and  the  watchful  Smoothson  by  the  side  of  the  little 
vehicle,  he  muttered  his  determination  of  writing  by  the  very 
next  post  to  Brandon,  all  his  anger  for  Lucy,  and  all  his  jeal- 
ousy of  her  evident  lover. 

While  this  doughty  resolve  was  animating  the  great  soul  of 
Mauleverer,  Lucy  reached  her  own  room,  bolted  the  door,  and 
throwing  herself  on  her  bed,  burst  into  a  long  and  bitter  par- 
oxysm of  tears.  So  unusual  were  such  visitors  to  her  happy 
and  buoyant  temper,  that  there  was  something  almost  alarming 
in  the  earnestness  and  obstinacy  with  which  she  now  wept. 

"What!"  said  she  bitterly,  "have  I  placed  my  affections 
upon  a  man  of  uncertain  character!  and  is  my  infatuation  so 
clear,  that  an  acquaintance  dare  hint  at  its  imprudence?  And 
yet  his  manner — his  tone!  No,  no,  there  can  be  no  reason  for 
shame  in  loving  him!"  And  as  she  said  this,  her  heart  smote 
her  for  the  coldness  of  her  manner  towards  Clifford,  on  his 
taking  leave  of  her  for  the  evening.  "Am  I,"  she  thought, 
weeping  yet  more  vehemently  than  before — "am  I  so  worldly, 
so  base,  as  to  feel  altered  towards  him  the  moment  I  hear  a 
syllable  breathed  against  his  name.  Should  I  not,  on  the  con- 
trary, have  clung  to  his  image  with  a  greater  love,  if  he  were 
attacked  by  others.  But  my  father,  my  dear  father,  and  my 
kind,  prudent  uncle,  something  is  due  to  them ;  and  they 
would  break  their  hearts  if  I  loved  one  whom  they  deemed  un- 
worthy. Why  should  I  not  summon  courage,  and  tell  him  of 
the  suspicions  respecting  him?  One  candid  word  would  dispel 
them.  Surely  it  would  be  but  kind  in  me  towards  him,  to  give 


iicS  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

him  an  opportunity  of  disproving  all  false  and  dishonoring 
conjectures.  And  why  this  reserve  when  so  often,  by  look  and 
hint,  if  not  by  open  avowal,  he  has  declared  that  he  loves  me, 
and  knows — he  must  know — that  he  is  not  indifferent  to  me? 
Why  does  he  never  speak  of  his  parents,  his  relations,  his 
home?" 

And  Lucy,  as  she  asked  this  question,  drew  from  a  bosom 
whose  hue  and  shape  might  have  rivalled  hers  who  won  Cymon 
to  be  wise,*  a  drawing  which  she  herself  had  secretly  made  of 
her  lover,  and  which,  though  inartificially  and  even  rudely 
done,  yet  had  caught  the  inspiration  of  memory,  and  breathed 
the  very  features  and  air  that  were  stamped  already  ineffaceably 
upon  a  heart  too  holy  for  so  sullied  an  idol.  She  gazed  upon 
the  portrait  as  if  it  could  answer  her  question  of  the  original ; 
and,  as  she  looked  and  looked,  her  tears  slowly  ceased,  and  her 
innocent  countenance  relapsed  gradually  into  its  usual  and  elo- 
quent serenity.  Never,  perhaps,  could  Lucy's  own  portrait 
have  been  taken  at  a  more  favorable  moment.  The  unconscious 
grace  of  her  attitude;  her  dress  loosened;  the  modest  and 
youthful  voluptuousness  of  her  beauty,  the  tender  cheek  to 
which  the  virgin  bloom,  banished  for  awhile,  was  now  all  glow- 
ingly returning;  the  little  white  soft  hand  on  which  that  cheek 
leaned,  while  the  other  contained  the  picture  upon  which  her 
eyes  fed;  the  half-smile  just  conjured  to  her  full,  red,  dewy 
lips,  and  gone  the  moment  after,  yet  again  restored — all  made 
a  picture  of  such  enchanting  loveliness,  that  we  question 
whether  Shakespeare  himself  could  have  fancied  an  earthly 
shape  more  meet  to  embody  the  vision  of  a  Miranda  or  a 
Viola.  The  quiet  and  maiden  neatness  of  the  apartment  gave 
effect  to  the  charm ;  and  there  was  a  poetry  even  in  the  snowy 
furniture  of  the  bed,  the  shutters  partly  unclosed  and  admit- 
ting a  glimpse  of  the  silver  moon,  and  the  solitary  lamp  just 
contending  with  the  purer  ray  of  the  skies,  and  so  throwing  a 
mixed  and  softened  light  around  the  chamber. 

She  was  yet  gazing  on  the  drawing,  when  a  faint  stream  of 
music  stole  through  the  air  beneath  her  window,  and  it  gradually 
rose  till  the  sound  of  a  guitar  became  distinct  and  clear,  suiting 
with,  not  disturbing,  the  moonlit  stillness  of  the  night.  The 
gallantry  and  romance  of  a  former  day,  though  at  the  time  of 
our  story  subsiding,  were  not  quite  dispelled ;  and  nightly 
serenades  under  the  casements  of  a  distinguished  beauty  were 
by  no  means  of  unfrequent  occurrence.  But  Lucy,  as  the  mu- 
sic floated  upon  her  ear,  blushed  deeper  and  deeper,  as  if  it 

*  See  Dryden's  poem  of  Cymon  and  Iphigenia. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  269 

had  a  dearer  source  to  her  heart  than  ordinary  gallantry;  and 
raising  herself  on  one  arm  from  her  incumbent  position,  she 
leaned  forward  to  catch  the  sound  with  a  greater  and  more 
unerring  certainty. 

After  a  prelude  of  some  moments,  a  clear  and  sweet  voice 
accompanied  the  instrument,  and  the  words  of  the  song  were 
as  follows : 

CLIFFORD'S  SERENADE. 

"  There  is  a  world  where  every  night 

My  spirit  meets  and  walks  with  thine  ; 
And  hopes — I  dare  not  tell  thee — light 
Like  stars  of  Love — that  world  of  mine  1 

Sleep  ! — to  the  waking  world  my  heart 

Hath  now,  methinks,  a  stranger  grown  : 
Ah,  sleep  !  that  I  may  feel  thou  art 

Within  one  world  that  is  my  own." 

As  the  music  died  away,  Lucy  sank  back  once  more,  and 
the  drawing  which  she  held  was  pressed  (with  cheeks  glowing, 
though  unseen,  at  the  act)  to  her  lips.  And  though  the  char- 
acter of  her  lover  was  uncleared,  though  she  herself  had  come 
to  no  distinct  resolution  even  to  inform  him  of  the  rumors 
against  his  name,  yet  so  easily  restored  was  her  trust  in  him, 
and  so  soothing  the  very  thought  of  his  vigilance  and  his  love, 
that  before  an  hour  had  passed,  her  eyes  were  closed  in  sleep ; 
the  drawing  was  laid,  as  a  spell  against  grief,  under  her  pillow; 
and  in  her  dreams  she  murmured  his  name,  and  unconscious 
of  reality  and  the  future,  smiled  tenderly  as  she  did  so ! 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  Come,  the  plot  thickens  !  and  another  fold 
Of  the  warm  cloak  of  mystery  wraps  us  around 
*  »  **'*  * 

And  for  their  loves  ? 

Behold  the  seal  is  ou  them  !  " —  Tanner  of  Tyburn. 

WE  must  not  suppose  that  Clifford's  manner  and  tone  were 
towards  Lucy  Brandon  such  as  they  seemed  to. others.  Love 
refines  every  roughness;  and  that  truth  which  nurtures  tender- 
ness is  never  barren  of  grace.  Whatever  the  habits  and  com- 
rades of  Clifford's  life,  he  had  at  heart  many  good  and  gener- 
ous qualities.  They  were  not  often  perceptible,  it  is  true — first, 
because  he  was  of  a  gay  and  reckless  turn ;  secondly,  because 


2IO  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

he  was  not  easily  affected  by  any  external  circumstances ;  and 
thirdly,  because  he  had  the  policy  to  affect  among  his  com- 
rades only  such  qualities  as  were  likely  to  give  him  influence 
with  them.  Still,  however,  his  better  genius  broke  out  when- 
ever an  opportunity  presented  itself.  Though  no  "  Corsair, ' '  ro- 
mantic and  unreal,  an  Ossianic  shadow  becoming  vast  in  pro- 
portion as  it  recedes  from  substance;  though  no  grandly 
imagined  lie  to  the  fair  proportions  of  human  nature,  but  an 
erring  man  in  a  very  prosaic  and  homely  world, — Clifford  still 
mingled  a  certain  generosity  and  chivalric  spirit  of  enterprise 
even  with  the  practices  of  his  profession.  Although  the  name 
of  Lovett,  by  which  he  was  chiefly  known,  was  one  peculiarly 
distinguished  in  the  annals  of  the  adventurous,  it  had  never 
been  coupled  with  rumors  of  cruelty  or  outrage ;  and  it  was 
often  associated  with  anecdotes  of  courage,  courtesy,  good 
humor,  or  forbearance.  He  was  one  whom  a  real  love  was 
peculiarly  calculated  to  soften  and  to  redeem.  The  boldness,  the 
candor,  the  unselfishness  of  his  temper  were  components  of 
nature  upon  which  affection  invariably  takes  a  strong  and  deep 
hold.  Besides,  Clifford  was  of  an  eager  and  aspiring  turn ; 
and  the  same  temper  and  abilities  which  had  in  a  very  few 
years  raised  him  in  influence  and  popularity  far  above  all  the 
chivalric  band  with  whom  he  was  connected,  when  once  in- 
flamed and  elevated  by  a  higher  passion  were  likely  to  arouse 
his  ambition  from  the  level  of  his  present  pursuits,  and  reform 
him,  ere  too  late,  into  a  useful,  nay,  even  an  honorable,  mem- 
ber of  society.  We  trust  that  the  reader  has  already  perceived 
that,  despite  his  early  circumstances,  his  manner  and  address 
were  not  such  as  to  unfit  him  for  a  lady's  love.  The  compara- 
tive refinement  of  his  exterior  is  easy  of  explanation,  for  he 
possessed  a  natural  and  inborn  gentility,  a  quick  turn  for  ob- 
servation, a  ready  sense  both  of  the  ridiculous  and  the  graceful; 
and  these  are  materials  which  are  soon  and  lightly  wrought 
from  coarseness  into  polish.  He  had  been  thrown,  too,  among 
the  leaders  and  heroes  of  his  band ;  many  not  absolutely  low  in 
birth,  nor  debased  in  habit.  He  had  associated  with  the  Bar- 
ringtons  of  the  day:  gentlemen  who  were  admired  at  Rane- 
lagh,  and  made  speeches  worthy  of  Cicero  when  they  Were 
summoned  to  trial.  He  had  played  his  part  in  public  places ; 
and,  as  Tomlinson  was  wont  to  say  after  his  classic  fashion, 
"  the  triumphs  accomplished  in  the  field  had  been  planned  in 
the  ball-room."  In  short,  he  was  one  of  those  accomplished 
and  elegant  highwaymen  of  whom  we  yet  read  wonders,  and 
by  whom  it  would  have  been  delightful  to  have  been  robbed; 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  21 1 

an  tne  aptness  of  intellect  which  grew  into  wit  with  his  friends, 
softened  into  sentiment  with  his  mistress.  There  is  some- 
thing, too,  in  beauty  (and  Clifford's  person,  as  we  have  before 
said,  was  possessed  of  even  uncommon  attractions),  which  lifts 
a  beggar  into  nobility ;  and  there  was  a  distinction  in  his  gait 
and  look  which  supplied  the  air  of  rank,  and  the  tone  of  courts. 
Men,  indeed,  skilled  like  Mauleverer  in  the  subtleties  of  man- 
ner, might  perhaps  have  easily  detected  in  him  the  want  of 
that  indescribable  essence  possessed  only  by  persons  reared  in 
good  society,  but  that  want  being  shared  by  so  many  persons  of 
indisputable  birth  and  fortune,  conveyed  no  particular  reproach. 
To  Lucy,  indeed,  brought  up  in  seclusion,  and  seeing  at  War- 
lock none  calculated  to  refine  her  taste  in  the  fashion  of  an  air 
or  phrase  to  a  very  fastidious  standard  of  perfection,  this  want 
was  perfectly  imperceptible :  she  remarked  in  her  lover  only  a 
figure  everywhere  unequalled — an  eye  always  eloquent  with 
admiration — a  step  from  which  grace  could  never  be  divorced — 
a  voice  that  spoke  in  a  silver  key,  and  uttered  flatteries  delicate 
in  thought  and  poetical  in  word :  even  a  certain  originality  of 
mind,  remark,  and  character,  occasionally  approaching  to  the 
bizarre,  yet  sometimes  also  to  the  elevated,  possessed  a  charm 
for  the  imagination  of  a  young  and  not  unenthusiastic  female, 
and  contrasted  favorably,  rather  than  the  reverse,  with  the  dull 
insipidity  of  those  she  ordinarily  saw.  Nor  are  we  sure  that  the 
mystery  thrown  about  him,  irksome  as  it  was  to  her,  and  dis- 
creditable as  it  appeared  to  others,  was  altogether  ineffectual 
in  increasing  her  love  for  the  adventurer;  and  thus  Fate,  which 
transmutes  in  her  magic  crucible  all  opposing  metals  into  that 
one  which  she  is  desirous  to  produce,  swelled  the  wealth  of  an 
ill-placed  and  ominous  passion  by  the  very  circumstances  which 
should  have  counteracted  and  destroyed  it. 

We  are  willing,  by  what  we  have  said,  not  to  defend  Clif- 
ford, but  to  redeem  Lucy  in  the  opinion  of  our  readers  for 
loving  so  unwisely,  and  when  they  remember  her  youth,  her 
education,  her  privation  of  a  mother,  of  all  female  friendship, 
even  of  the  vigilant  and  unrelaxing  care  of  some  protector  of 
the  opposite  sex,  we  do  not  think  that  what  was  so  natural 
will  be  considered  by  any  inexcusable. 

Mauleverer  woke  the  morning  after  the  ball  in  better  health 
than  usual,  and,  consequently,  more  in  love  than  ever. 
According  to  his  resolution  the  night  before,  he  sat  down  to 
write  a  long  letter  to  William  Brandon :  but  the  wily  noble- 
man succeeded,  under  the  cover  of  wit,  in  conveying  to  Bran- 
don's mind  a  serious  apprehension  lest  his  cherished  matri-1 


212  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

inonial  project  should  altogether  fail.  The  account  of  Lucy 
and  of  Captain  Clifford  contained  in  the  epistle,  instilled,  in- 
deed,a  double  portion  of  sourness  into  the  professionally  acrid 
mind  of  the  lawyer;  and  as  it  so  happened  that  he  read  the  let- 
ter jusi  before  attending  the  court  upon  a  case  in  which  he  was 
counsel  to  the  crown,  the  witnesses  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
question  felt  the  full  effects  of  the  barrister's  ill-humor. 

The  case  was  one  in  which  the  defendant  had  been  engaged 
in  swindling  transactions  to  a  very  large  amount;  and,  amongst 
his  agents  and  assistants,  was  a  person  of  the  very  lowest  or- 
ders— but  who  seemingly  enjoying  large  connections,  and  pos- 
sessing natural  acuteness  and  address,  appeared  to  have  been 
of  great  use  in  receiving  and  disposing  of  such  goods  as  were 
fraudulently  obtained.  As  a  witness  against  the  latter  person 
appeared  a  pawnbroker,  who  produced  certain  articles  that  had 
been  pledged  to  him  at  different  times  by  this  humble  agent. 
Now,  Brandon,  in  examining  the  guilty  go-between,  became 
the  more  terribly  severe,  in  proportion  as  the  man  evinced  that 
semblance  of  unconscious  stolidity  which  the  lower  orders  can 
so  ingeniously  assume,  and  which  is  so  peculiarly  adapted  to  en- 
rage and  to  baffle  the  gentlemen  of  the  bar.  At  length,  Bran- 
don entirely  subduing  and  quelling  the  stubborn  hypocrisy  of 
the  culprit,  the  man  turned  towards  him  a  look  between  wrath 
and  beseechingness,  muttering: 

"Aha ! — if  so  be,  Counsellor  Brandon,  you  knew  vat  I  knows, 
you  vould  not  go  for  to  bully  /so!" 

"And  pray,  my  good  fellow,  what  is  it  that  you  know  that 
should  make  me  treat  you  as  if  I  thought  you  an  honest  man?" 

The  witness  had  now  relapsed  into  sullenness,  and  only  an- 
swered by  a  sort  of  grunt.  Brandon,  who  knew  well  how  to 
sting  a  witness  into  communicativeness,  continued  his  question- 
ing, till  the  witness,  rearoused  into  anger,  and,  it  may  be,  into 
indiscretion,  said,  in  a  low  voice : 

"Hax  Mr.  Swoppem  (the  pawnbroker)  what  I  sold  'im  on 
the  i5th  hof  February,  exactly  twenty-three  yearn  ago." 

Brandon  started  back ;  his  lips  grew  white,  he  clenched  his 
hands  with  a  convulsive  spasm,  and  while  all  his  features  seemed 
distorted  with  an  earnest,  yet  fearful  intensity  of  expectation,  he 
poured  forth  a  volley  of  questions,  so  incoherent  and  so  irrele- 
vant, that  he  was  immediately  called  to  order  by  his  learned 
brother  on  the  opposite  side.  Nothing  farther  could  be  ex- 
tracted from  the  witness.  The  pawnbroker  was  resummoned : 
he  appeared  somewhat  disconcerted  by  an  appeal  to  his  memory 
50  far  back  as  twenty-three  years ;  but  after  taking  some  time 


PAtJL    CLIFFORD.  21$ 

to  consider,  during  which  the  agitation  of  the  usually  cold  and 
possessed  Brandon  was  remarkable  to  all  the  court,  he  declared 
that  he  recollected  no  transaction  whatsoever  with  the  wit- 
ness at  that  time.  In  vain  were  all  Brandon's  efforts  to  pro- 
cure a  more  elucidatory  answer.  The  pawnbroker  was  impene- 
trable, and  the  lawyer  was  compelled  reluctantly  to  dismiss 
him.  The  moment  the  witness  left  the  box,  Brandon  sunk  into 
a  gloomy  abstraction — he  seemed  quite  to  forget  the  business 
and  the  duties  of  the  court;  and  so  negligently  did  he  continue 
to  conclude  the  case,  so  purposeless  was  the  rest  of  his  ex- 
amination and  cross-examination,  that  the  cause  was  entirely 
marred,  and  a  verdict  "Not  guilty"  returned  by  the  jury. 

The  moment  he  left  the  court,  Brandon  repaired  to  the  pawn- 
broker's; and  after  a  conversation  with  Mr.  Swoppem,  in 
which  he  satisfied  that  honest  tradesman  that  his  object  was 
rather  to  reward  than  intimidate,  Swoppem  confessed  that, 
twenty-three  years  ago,  the  witness  had  met  him  at  a  public- 
house  in  Devereux  Court,  in  company  with  two  other  men,  and 
sold  him  several  articles  in  plate,  ornaments,  etc.  The  great 
bulk  of  these  articles  had,  of  course,  long  left  the  pawnbroker's 
abode ;  but  he  still  thought  a  stray  trinket  or  two — not  of  suffi- 
cient worth  to  be  reset  or  remodelled,  nor  of  sufficient  fashion 
to  find  a  ready  sale — lingered  in  his  drawers.  Eagerly,  and 
with  trembling  hands,  did  Brandon  toss  over  the  motley  con- 
tents of  the  mahogany  reservoirs  which  the  pawnbroker  now 
submitted  to  his  scrutiny.  Nothing  on  earth  is  so  melancholy 
a  prospect  as  a  pawnbroker's  drawer!  Those  little,  quaint, 
valueless  ornaments, — those  true-lovers'  knots,  those  oval  lock- 
ets, those  battered  rings,  girdled  by  initials,  or  some  brief  in- 
scription of  regard  or  of  grief, — what  tales  of  past  affections, 
hopes,  and  sorrows,  do  they  not  tell!  But  no  sentiment  of  so 
general  a  sort  ever  saddened  the  hard  mind  of  William  Bran- 
don, and  now  less  than  at  any  time  could  such  reflections  have 
occurred  to  him.  Impatiently  he  threw  on  the  table,  one  after 
another,  the  baubles  once  hoarded,  perchance,  with  the  ten- 
derest  respect,  till,  at  length,  his  eyes  sparkled,  and  with  a  ner- 
vous gripe  he  seized  upon  an  old  ring,  which  was  inscribed 
with  letters,  and  circled  a  heart  containing  hair.  The  inscrip- 
tion was  simply,  "W.  B.  to  Julia."  Strange  and  dark  was  the 
expression  that  settled  on  Brandon's  face  as  he  regarded  this 
seemingly  worthless  trinket.  After  a  moment's  gaze,  he  uttered 
an  inarticulate  exclamation,  and,  thrusting  it  into  his  pocket, 
renewed  his  search.  He  found  one  or  two  other  trifles  of  a 
similar  nature ;  one  was  an  ill-done  miniature  set  in  silver,  and 


214  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

bearing  at  the  back  sundry  half-effaced  letters,  which  Brandon 
constructed  at  once  (though  no  other  eye  could)  into  "Sir  John 
Brandon,  1635,  aetat.  28";  the  other  was  a  seal  stamped  with 
the  noble  crest  of  the  house  of  Brandon,  "A  bull's  head, 
ducally  crowned  and  armed,  or."  As  soon  as  Brandon  had 
possessed  himself  of  these  treasures,  and  arrived  at  the  con- 
viction that  the  place  held  no  more,  he  assured  the  conscien- 
tious Swoppem  of  his  regard  for  that  person's  safety,  rewarded 
him  munificently,  and  went  his  way  to  Bow  Street  for  a  war- 
rant against  the  witness  who  had  commended  him  to  the  pawn- 
broker. On  his  road  thither,  a  new  resolution  occurred  to 
him:  "Why  make  all  public,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "if  it 
fan  be  avoided?  and  it  may  be  avoided !"  He  paused  a  mo- 
ment,— then  retraced  his  way  to  the  pawnbroker's,  and,  after 
a  brief  mandate  to  Mr.  Swoppem  returned  home.  In  the 
course  of  the  same  evening,  the  witness  we  refer  to  was  brought 
to  the  lawyer's  house  by  Mr.  Swoppem,  and  there  held  a  long 
and  private  conversation  with  Brandon;  the  result  of  this 
seemed  a  compact  to  their  mutual  satisfaction,  for  the  man 
went  away  safe,  with  a  heavy  purse  and  a  light  heart,  although 
sundry  shades  and  misgivings  did  certainly  ever  and  anon 
cross  the  latter;  while  Brandon  flung  himself  back  in  his  seat, 
with  the  triumphant  air  of  one  who  has  accomplished  some 
great  measure,  and  his  dark  face  betrayed  in  every  feature  a 
joyousness  and  hope  which  were  unfrequent  guests,  it  must 
be  owned,  either  to  his  countenance  or  his  heart. 

So  good  a  man  of  business,  however,  was  William  Brandon, 
that  he  allowed  not  the  event  of  that  day  to  defer  beyond  the 
night  his  attention  to  his  designs  for  the  aggrandizement  of  his 
niece  and  house.  By  daybreak  the  next  morning,  he  had 
written  to  Lord  Mauleverer,  to  his  brother,  and  to  Lucy.  To 
the  last,  his  letter,  couched  in  all  the  anxiety  of  fondness  and 
the  caution  of  affectionate  experience,  was  well  calculated  to 
occasion  that  mingled  shame  and  soreness  which  the  wary  law- 
yer rightly  judged  would  be  the  most  effectual  enemy  to  an 
incipient  passion.  "I  have  accidently  heard, "  he  wrote,  "from 
a  friend  of  mine,  just  arrived  from  Bath,  of  the  glaring  atten- 
tions paid  to  you  by  a  Captain  Clifford ;  I  will  not,  my  dearest 
niece,  wound  you  by  repeating  what  also  I  heard  of  your  man- 
ner in  receiving  them.  I  know  the  ill-nature  and  the  envy  of 
the  world ;  and  I  do  not  for  a  moment  imagine  that  my  Lucy, 
of  whom  I  am  so  justly  proud  would  countenance,  from  a  petty 
coquetry,  the  advances  of  one  whom  she  could  never  marry,  or 
evince  to  any  suitor  partiality  unknown  to  her  relations,  an4 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  215 

certainly  placed  in  a  quarter  which  could  never  receive  their 
approbation.  I  do  not  credit  the  reports  of  the  idle,  my  dear 
niece ;  but  if  I  discredit,  you  must  not  slight  them.  I  call  upon 
your  prudence,  your  delicacy,  your  discretion,  your  sense  of 
right,  at  once,  and  effectually,  to  put  a  stop  to  all  impertinent 
rumors :  dance  with  this  young  man  no  more ;  do  not  let  him 
be  of  your  party  in  any  place  of  amusement,  public  or  private ; 
avoid  even  seeing  him  if  you  are  able,  and  throw  in  your  man- 
ner towards  him  that  decided  coldness  which  the  world  cannot 
mistake."  Much  more  did  the  skillful  uncle  write,  but  all  to 
the  same  purpose,  and  for  the  furtherance  of  the  same  design. 
His  letter  to  his  brother  was  no  less  artful.  He  told  him  at 
once  that  Lucy's  preference  of  the  suit  of  a  handsome  fortune- 
hunter  was  the  public  talk,  and  besought  him  to  lose  not  a  mo- 
ment in  quelling  the  rumor.  '  'You  may  do  so  easily,"  he  wrote, 
"by  avoiding  the  young  man;  and  should  he  be  very  importu- 
nate, return  at  once  to  Warlock;  your  daughter's  welfare  must 
be  dearer  to  you  than  any  thing." 

To  Mauleverer,  Brandon  replied  by  a  letter  which  turned 
first  on  public  matters,  and  then  slid  carelessly  into  the  subject 
of  the  earl's  information. 

Among  the  admonitions  which  he  ventured  to  give  Maul- 
everer, he  dwelt,  not  without  reason,  on  the  want  of  tact  dis- 
played by  the  Earl  in  not  manifesting  that  pomp  and  show 
which  his  station  in  life  enabled  him  to  do.  "  Remember," 
he  urged,  "you  are  not  among  your  equals,  by  whom  unneces- 
sary parade  begins  to  be  considered  an  ostentatious  vulgarity. 
The  surest  method  of  dazzling  our  inferiors  is  by  splendor — 
not  taste.  All  young  persons — all  women  in  particular,  are 
caught  by  show,  and  enamoured  of  magnificence.  Assume  a 
greater  state,  and  you  will  be  more  talked  of;  and  notoriety 
wins  a  woman's  heart  more  than  beauty  or  youth.  You  have, 
forgive  me,  played  the  boy  too  long ;  a  certain  dignity  becomes 
your  manhood :  women  will  not  respect  you  if  you  suffer  your- 
self to  become  'stale  and  cheap  to  vulgar  company.'  You  are 
like  a  man  who  has  fifty  advantages,  and  uses  only  one  of  them 
to  gain  his  point,  when  you  rely  on  your  conversation  and  your 
manner,  and  throw  away  the  resources  of  your  wealth  and  your 
station.  Any  private  gentleman  may  be  amiable  and  witty ; 
but  any  private  gentleman  cannot  call  to  his  aid  the  Aladdin's 
lamp  possessed  in  England  by  a  wealthy  peer.  Look  to  this, 
my  dear  lord;  Lucy  at  heart  is  vain,  or  she  is  not  a  woman. 
Dazzle  her,  then, — dazzle!  Love  may  be  blind,  but  it  must 
te  made  so  by  excess  of  light.  You  have  a  country-house 


2l6  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

within  a  few  miles  of  Bath.  Why  not  take  up  your  abode  there 
instead  of  in  a  paltry  lodging  in  the  town  ?  Give  sumptuous  en- 
tertainments,— make  it  necessary  for  all  the  world  to  attend 
them, — exclude,  of  course,  this  Captain  Clifford ;  you  will  then 
meet  Lucy  without  a  rival.  At  present,  excepting  only  your 
title,  you  fight  on  a  level  ground  with  this  adventurer,  instead 
of  an  eminence  from  which  you  could  in  an  instant  sweep  him 
away.  Nay,  he  is  stronger  than  you  ;  he  has  the  opportunities 
afforded  by  a  partnership  in  balls  where  you  cannot  appear  to 
advantage;  he  is,  you  say,  in  the  first  bloom  of  youth, — he 
is  handsome.  Reflect! — your  destiny,  so  far  as  Lucy  is  con- 
cerned, is  in  your  hands.  I  turn  to  other  subjects,"  etc. 

As  Brandon  reread,  ere  he  signed  this  last  letter,  a  bitter 
smile  sat  on  his  harsh,  yet  handsome  features.  "If,"  said  he 
mentally,  "I  can  effect  this  object;  if  Mauleverer  does  marry 
this  girl,  why  so  much  the  better  that  she  has  another,  a  fairer, 
and  a  more  welcome  lover.  By  the  great  principle  of  scorn 
within  me,  which  has  enabled  me  to  sneer  at  what  weaker 
minds  adore  and  make  a  footstool  of  that  worldly  honor  which 
fc>ols  set  up  as  a  throne,  it  would  be  to  me  more  sweet  than 
fame — ay,  or  even  than  power — to  see  this  fine-spun  lord  a 
gibe  in  the  mouths  of  men, — a  cuckold — a  cuckold!"  and  as  he 
said  the  last  word  Brandon  laughed  outright.  "And  he  thinks, 
too,"  added  he,  "that  he  is  sure  of  my  fortune;  otherwise, 
perhaps,  he  the  goldsmith's  descendant,  would  not  dignify  our 
house  with  his  proposals ;  but  he  may  err  there — he  may  err 
there"; — and  finishing  his  soliloquy,  Brandon  finished  also  his 
letter  by — "Adieu,  my  dear  lord,  your  most  affectionate 
friend!" 

It  is  not  difficult  to  conjecture  the  effect  produced  upon 
Lucy  by  Brandon's  letter:  it  made  her  wretched ;  she  refused 
for  days  to  go  out;  she  shut  herself  up  in  her  apartment,  and 
consumed  the  time  in  tears  and  struggles  with  her  own  heart. 
Sometimes,  what  she  conceived  to  be  her  duty  conquered,  and 
she  resolved  to  forswear  her  lover;  but  the  night,  undid  the 
labor  of  the  day:  for  at  night,  every  night  the  sound  of  her 
lover's  voice,  accompanied  by  music,  melted  away  her  resolu- 
tion, and  made  her  once  more  all  tenderness  and  trust.  The 
words,  too,  sung  under  her  window,  were  especially  suited  to 
affect  her;  they  breathed  a  melancholy  which  touched  her  the 
more  from  its  harmony  with  her  own  thoughts.  One  while  they 
complained  of  absence,  at  another  they  hinted  at  neglect ;  but 
there  was  always  in  them  a  tone  of  humiliation,  not  reproach : 
they  bespoke  a  sense  of  unworthiness  in  the  lover,  and  confessed 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  217 

that  even  the  love  was  a  crime:  and  in  proportion  as  they  owned 
the  want  of  desert,  did  Lucy  more  firmly  cling  to  the  belief 
that  her  lover  was  deserving. 

The  old  squire  was  greatly  disconcerted  by  his  brother's 
letter.  Though  impressed  with  the  idea  of  self-consequence, 
and  the  love  of  tolerably  pure  blood,  common  to  most  country 
squires,  he  was  by  no  means  ambitious  for  his  daughter.  On 
the  contrary,  the  same  feeling  which  at  Warlock  had  made  him 
choose  his  companions  among  the  inferior  gentry,  made  him 
averse  to  the  thought  of  a  son-in-law  from  the  peerage.  In 
spite  of  Mauleverer's  good  nature,  the  very  ease  of  the  Earl 
annoyed  him,  and  he  never  felt  at  home  in  his  society.  To 
Clifford  he  had  a  great  liking;  and  having  convinced  himself 
that  there  was  nothing  to  suspect  in  the  young  gentleman,  he 
saw  no  earthly  reason  why  so  agreeable  a  companion  should 
not  be  an  agreeable  son-in-law.  "If  he  be  poor,"  thought  the 
squire,  "though  he  does  not  seem  so,  Lucy  is  rich!"  And  this 
truism  appeared  to  him  to  answer  every  objection.  Neverthe- 
less, William  Brandon  possessed  a  remarkable  influence  over 
the  weaker  mind  of  his  brother;  and  the  squire,  though  with 
great  reluctance,  resolved  to  adopt  his  advice.  He  shut  his 
doors  against  Clifford,  and  when  he  met  him  in  the  streets, 
instead  of  greeting  him  with  his  wonted  cordiality,  he  passed 
him  with  a  hasty  "Good  day,  captain!"  which,  after  the  first 
day  or  two,  merged  into  a  distant  bow.  Whenever  very  good- 
hearted  people  are  rude,  and  unjustly  so,  the  rudeness  is  in  the 
extreme.  The  squire  felt  it  so  irksome  to  be  less  familiar  than 
heretofore  with  Clifford,  that  his  only  remaining  desire  was 
now  to  drop  him  altogether;  and  to  this  consummation  of  ac- 
quaintance the  gradually  cooling  salute  appeared  rapidly  ap- 
proaching. Meanwhile,  Clifford,  unable  to  see  Lucy,  shunned 
by  her  father,  and  obtaining  in  answer  to  all  inquiry  rude  looks 
from  the  footman,  whom  nothing  but  the  most  resolute  com- 
mand over  his  muscles  prevented  him  from  knocking  down, 
began  to  feel,  perhaps,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  that  an 
equivocal  character  is  at  least  no  equivocal  misfortune.  To 
add  to  his  distress,  "the  earnings  of  his  previous  industry" — 
we  use  the  expression  cherished  by  the  wise  Tomlinson — 
waxed  gradually  less  and  less,  beneath  the  expenses  of  Bath, 
and  the  murmuring  voices  of  his  two  comrades  began  already 
to  reproach  their  chief  for  his  inglorious  idleness,  and  to  hint 
at  the  necessity  of  a  speedy  exertion. 


2l8  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Whackum.  Look  you  there  now  !    Well,  all  Europe  can  not  show  a  knot 
of  finer  wits  and  braver  gentlemen. 
Dingboy.  Faith,  they  are  pretty  smart  men. — SHADWELL'S  Scourers. 

THE  world  of  Bath  was  of  a  sudden  delighted  by  the  intelli- 
gence that  Lord  Mauleverer  had  gone  to  Beauvale  (the  beauti- 
ful seat  possessed  by  that  nobleman  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Bath),  with  the  intention  of  there  holding  a  series  of  sumptu- 
ous entertainments. 

The  first  persons  to  whom  the  gay  Earl  announced  his  "hos- 
pitable purpose"  were  Mr.  and  Miss  Brandon;  he  called  at 
their  house,  and  declared  his  resolution  of  not  leaving  it  till 
Lucy  (who  was  in  her  own  room)  consented  to  gratify  him  with 
an  interview,  and  a  promise  to  be  the  queen  of  his  purposed  festi- 
val. Lucy,  teased  by  her  father,  descended  to  the  drawing- 
room  spiritless  and  pale;  and  the  Earl,  struck  by  the  alteration 
of  her  appearance,  took  her  hand,  and  made  his  inquiries  with 
so  interested  and  feeling  a  semblance  of  kindness,  as  prepos- 
sessed the  father,  for  the  first  time,  in  his  favor,  and  touched 
even  the  daughter.  So  earnest,  too,  was  his  request  that  she 
would  honor  his  festivities  with  her  presence,  and  with  so  skill' 
ful  a  flattery  was  it  conveyed,  that  the  squire  undertook  to 
promise  the  favor  in  her  name ;  and  when  the  Earl,  declaring 
he  was  not  contented  with  that  promise  from  another,  appealed 
to  Lucy  herself,  her  denial  was  soon  melted  into  a  positive, 
though  a  reluctant  assent. 

Delighted  with  his  success,  and  more  struck  with  Lucy'? 
loveliness,  refined  as  it  was  by  her  paleness,  than  he  had  ever  been 
before,  Mauleverer  left  the  house,  and  calculated,  with  greater 
accuracy  than  he  had  hitherto  done-,  the  probable  fortune  Lucy 
would  derive  from  her  uncle. 

No  sooner  were  the  cards  issued  for  Lord  Mauleverer's  fete, 
than  nothing  else  was  talked  of  among  the  circles  which,  at 
Bath,  people  were  pleased  to  term  "the  World." 

But,  in  the  interim,  caps  are  making,  and  talk  flowing,  at 
Bath ;  and  when  it  was  found  that  Lord  Mauleverer — the  good- 
natured  Lord  Mauleverer! — the  obliging  Lord  Mauleverer! — 
was  really  going  to  be  exclusive,  and  out  of  a  thousand  ac- 
quaintances to  select  only  eight  hundred,  it  is  amazing  how  his 
popularity  deepened  into  respect.  Now,  then,  came  anxiety 
and  triumph ;  she  who  was  asked  turned  her  back  upon  her 
who  was  not, — old  friendships  dissolved, — Independence  wrote 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  219 

letters  for  a  ticket, — and,  as  England  is  the  freest  country  in 
the  world,  all  the  Mistresses  Hodges  and  Snodges  begged  to 
take  the  liberty  of  bringing  their  youngest  daughters. 

Leaving  the  enviable  Mauleverer — the  godlike  occasion  of  so 
much  happiness  and  woe,  triumph  and  dejection,  ascend  with 
us,  O  reader,  into  those  elegant  apartments  over  the  hair- 
dresser's shop,  tenanted  by  Mr.  Edward  Pepper  and  Mr. 
Augustus  Tomlinson :  the  time  was  that  of  evening;  Captain 
Clifford  had  been  dining  with  his  two  friends:  the  cloth  was 
removed,  and  conversation  was  flowing  over  a  table  graced  by 
two  bottles  of  port,  a  bowl  of  punch  for  Mr.  Pepper's  especial 
discussion,  two  dishes  of  filberts,  another  of  devilled  biscuits, 
and  a  fourth  of  three  Pomarian  crudities,  which  nobody 
touched. 

The  hearth  was  swept  clean,  the  fire  burned  high  and  clear, 
the  curtains  were  let  down,  and  the  light  excluded.  Our  three 
adventurers  and  their  room  seemed  the  picture  of  comfort. 
So  thought  Mr.  Pepper ;  for,  glancing  round  the  chamber,  and 
putting  his  feet  upon  the  fender,  he  said : 

"Were  my  portrait  to  be  taken,  gentlemen,  it  is  just  as  I  am 
now  that  I  would  be  drawn!" 

"And,"  said  Tomlinson,  cracking  his  filberts — Tomlinson 
was  fond  of  filberts — "were  I  to  choose  a  home,  it  is  in  such  a 
home  as  this  that  I  would  be  always  quartered." 

"Ah!  gentlemen,"  said  Clifford,  who  had  been  for  some  time 
silent,  "it  is  more  than  probable  that  both  your  wishes  may  be 
heard,  and  that  ye  may  be  drawn,  quartered,  and  something 
else,  too,  in  the  very  place  of  your  desert !  " 

"Well!"  said  Tomlinson,  smiling  gently,  "I  am  happy  to 
hear  you  jest  again,  captain,  though  it  be  at  our  expense." 

"Expense!"  echoed  Ned;  "Ay!  there's  the  rub !  Who  the 
deuce  is  to  pay  the  expense  of  our  dinner?" 

"And  our  dinners  for  last  week?"  added  Tomlinson;  this 
empty  nut  looks  rather  ominous;  it  certainly  has  one  grand 
feature,  strikingly  resembling  my  pockets." 

"Heigho!"  sighed  Long  Ned — turning  his  waistcoat  com- 
modities inside-out  with  a  significant  gesture,  while  the  accom- 
plished Tomlinson,  who  was  fond  of  plaintive  poetry,  pointed 
to  the  disconsolate  vacua,  and  exclaimed: 

"  E'en  while  Fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart  desponding  asks  if  this  be  joy  !  " 

"In  truth,  gentlemen,"  added  he  solemnly,  depositing  hia 
nut-crackers  on  the  table,  and  laying,  as  was  his  wont,  when 


220  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

about  to  be  luminous,  his  right  finger  on  his  sinister  palm — "in 
truth,  gentlemen,  affairs  are  growing  serious  with  us,  and  it 
becomes  necessary  forthwith  to  devise  some  safe  means  of  pro- 
curing a  decent  competence." 

"I  am  dunned  confoundedly,"  cried  Ned. 

"And,"  continued  Tomlinson,  "no  person  of  delicacy  likes 
to  be  subjected  to  the  importunity  of  vulgar  creditors;  we 
must,  therefore,  raise  money  for  the  liquidation  of  our  debts. 
Captain  Lovett,  or  Clifford,  whichever  you  be  styled,  we  call 
upon  you  to  assist  us  in  so  praiseworthy  a  purpose." 

Clifford  turned  his  eyes  first  on  one,  then  on  the  other,  but 
made  no  answer. 

"Imprimis"  said  Tomlinson,  "let  us  each  produce  our  stock 
in  hand :  for  my  part,  I  am  free  to  confess — for  what  shame  is 
there  in  that  poverty  which  our  exertions  are  about  to  relieve? — 
that  I  have  only  two  guineas,  four  shillings,  and  threepence 
half-penny!" 

"And  I,"  said  Long  Ned,  taking  a  china  ornament  from  the 
chimney-piece,  and  emptying  its  contents  in  his  hand,  "am  in 
a  still  more  pitiful  condition.  See,  I  have  only  three  shillings 
and  a  bad  guinea.  I  gave  the  guinea  to  the  waiter  at  the 
White  Hart,  yesterday;  the  dog  brought  it  back  to  me  to-day, 
and  I  was  forced  to  change  it  with  my  last  shiner.  Plague 
take  the  thing;  I  bought  it  of  a  Jew  for  four  shillings,  and 
have  lost  one  pound  five  by  the  bargain!" 

"Fortune  frustrates  our  wisest  schemes!"  rejoined  the  mor- 
alizing Augustus.  "Captain,  will  you  produce  the  scanty 
wrecks  of  your  wealth?" 

Clifford,  still  silent,  threw  a  purse  on  the  table ;  Augustus 
carefully  emptied  it,  and  counted  out  five  guineas ;  an  expres- 
sion of  grave  surprise  settled  on  Tomlinson's  contemplative 
brow,  and  extending  the  coins  towards  Clifford,  he  said  in  a 
melancholy  tone: 

"  All  your  pretty  ones  ? 

Did  you  say  all  ?  " 

A  look  from  Clifford  answered  the  interesting  interrogatory 
"These,  then,"  said  Tomlinson,  collecting  in  his  hand  the 
common    wealth — "these,   then,  are    all  our   remaining   treas- 
ures!"— As  he  spoke,  he  jingled  the  coins  mournfully  in  his 
palm,  and  gazing  upon  them  with  a  parental  air,  exclaimed : 
"  Alas,  regardless  of  their  doom,  the  little  victims  play  !  " 

"Oh,  d — n  it!"  said  Ned,  "no  sentiment!  Let  us  come 
to  business  at  once.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I,  for  one,  am  tired 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  221 

of  this  heiress-hunting,  and  a  man  may  spend  a  fortune  in  the 
chase  before  he  can  win  one." 

"You  despair  then,  positively,  of  the  widow  you  have 
courted  so  long?"  asked  Tomlinson. 

"Utterly!"  rejoined  Ned,  whose  addresses  had  been  limited 
solely  to  the  dames  of  the  middling  class,  and  who  had  imag- 
ined himself  at  one  time,  as  he  punningly  expressed  it,  sure  of  a 
dear  rib  from  Cheapside.  "Utterly;  she  was  very  civil  to  me 
at  first,  but  when  I  proposed,  asked  me,  with  a  blush,  for  my 
'references.' — 'References"  said  I ;  'why,  I  want  the  place  of 
your  husband,  my  charmer,  not  your  footman!' — The  dame 
was  inexorable,  said  she  could  not  take  me  without  a  character, 
but  hinted  that  I  might  be  the  lover  instead  of  the  bridegroom ; 
and  when  I  scorned  the  suggestion,  and  pressed  for  the  parson, 
she  told  me  point  blank,  with  her  unlucky  city  pronunciation, 
'that  she  would  never  accompany  me  to  the  Walter'!" 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  cried  Tomlinson,  laughing.  "One  can 
scarcely  blame  the*  good  lady  for  that.  Love  rarely  brooks 
such  permament  ties.  But  have  you  no  other  lady  in  your 
eye  ? ' ' 

"Not  for  matrimony:  all  roads  but  those  to  the  church!" 

While  this  dissolute  pair  were  thus  conversing,  Clifford,  lean- 
ing against  the  wainscot,  listened  to  them  with  a  sick  and  bitter 
feeling  of  degradation,  which,  till  of  late  days,  had  been  a 
stranger  to  his  breast.  He  was  at  length  aroused  from  his 
silence  by  Ned,  who  bending  forward,  and  placing  his  hand  upon 
Clifford's  knee,  said  abruptly : 

"In  short,  captain,  you  must  lead  us  once  more  to  glory. 
We  have  still  our  horses,  and  I  keep  my  mask  in  my  pocket- 
book,  together  with  my  comb.  Let  us  take  the  road  to-morrow 
night,  dash  across  the  country  towards  Salisbury,  and  after  a 
short  visit  in  that  neighborhood  to  a  band  of  old  friends  of 
mine — bold  fellows,  who  would  have  stopped  the  devil  himself 
when  he  was  at  work  upon  Stonehenge, — make  a  tour  by  Read- 
ing and  Henley,  and  end  by  a  plunge  into  London." 

"You  have  spoken  well,  Ned!"  said  Tomlinson  approv- 
ingly. "Now,  noble  captain,  your  opinion?" 

"Messieurs,"  answered  Clifford,  "I  highly  approve  of  your 
intended  excursion,  and  I  only  regret  that  I  cannot  be  your 
companion." 

"Not!  and  why?"  cried  Mr.  Pepper,  amazed. 

"Because  I  have  business  here  that  renders  it  impossible; 
perhaps  before  long,  I  may  join  you  in  London." 

"Nay,"  said  Tomlinson,  "there  is  no  necessity  for  our  going 


222  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

to  London,  if  you  wish  to  remain  here;  nor  need  we  at  present 
recur  to  so  desperate  an  expedient  as  the  road — a  little  quiet 
business  at  Bath  will  answer  our  purpose ;  and  for  my  part,  as 
you  well  know,  I  love  exerting  my  wits  in  some  scheme  more 
worthy  of  them  than  the  highway ;  a  profession  meeter  for  a 
bully  than  a  man  of  genius.  Let  us  then,  captain,  plan  a  pro- 
ject of  enrichment  on  the  property  of  some  credulous  trades- 
man !  why  have  recourse  to  rough  measures,  so  long  as  we  can 
find  easy  fools?" 

Clifford  shook  his  head.  "I  will  own  to  you  fairly,"  said 
he,  "that  I  cannot  at  present  take  a  share  in  your  exploits; 
nay,  as  your  chief,  I  must  lay  my  positive  commands  on  you  to 
refrain  from  all  exercise  of  your  talents  at  Bath.  Rob,  if  you 
please;  the  world  is  before  you;  but  this  city  is  sacred." 

"Body  o*  me!"  cried  Ned,  coloring,  "but  this  is  too  good. 
I  will  not  be  dictated  to  in  this  manner." 

"But,  sir,"  answered  Clifford,  who  had  .learned  in  his  oli- 
garchical profession  the  way  to  command,  "but,  sir,  you  shall; 
or  if  you  mutiny,  you  leave  our  body,  and  then  will  the  hang- 
man have  no  petty  chance  of  your  own.  Come!  come!  ingrate 
as  you  are,  what  would  you  be  without  me?  How  many  times 
have  I  already  saved  that  long  carcass  of  ?hine  from  the  rope, 
and  now  would  you  have  the  baseness  to  rebel?  Out  on  you  ! " 

Though  Mr.  Pepper  was  still  wroth,  he  bit  his  lip  in  moody 
silence,  and  suffered  not  his  passion  to  have  its  way:  while 
Clifford  rising,  after  a  short  pause,  continued:  "Look  you, 
Mr.  Pepper,  you  know  my  commands,  consider  them  peremp- 
tory. I  wish  you  success,  and  plenty!  Farewell,  gen- 
tlemen!" 

"Do  you  leave  us  already?"  cried  Tomlinson.  "You  are 
offended." 

"Surely  not!"  answered  Clifford,  retreating  to  the  door. 
"But  an  engagement  elsewhere,  you  know!" 

"Ay,  I  take  you!"  said  Tomlinson,  following  Clifford  out 
of  the  room,  and  shutting  the  door  after  him. 

"Ay,  I  take  you!"  added  he,  in  a  whisper,  as  he  arrested 
Clifford  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  "But  tell  me,  how  do  you 
get  on  with  the  heiress?" 

Smothering  that  sensation  at  his  heart  which  made  Clifford, 
reckless  as  he  was,  enraged  and  ashamed,  whenever,  through 
the  lips  of  his  comrades,  there  issued  any  allusion  to  Lucy 
Brandon,  the  chief  replied,  "I  fear,  Tomlinson,  that  I  am 
already  suspected  by  the  old  squire!  All  of  a  sudden,  he 
avoids  me,  shuts  his  door  against  me ;  Miss  Brandon  goes  no- 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  223 

where :  and  even  if  she  did,  what  could  I  expect  from  her 
after  this  sudden  change  in  her  father?" 

Tomlinson  looked  blank  and  disconcerted.  "But,"  said  he, 
after  a  moment's  silence,  "why  not  put  a  good  face  on  the 
matter?  walk  up  to  the  squire  and  ask  him  the  reason  of  his 
unkindness?" 

"Why,  look  you,  my  friend;  I  am  bold  enough  with  all 
others,  but  this  girl  has  made  me  as  bashful  as  a  maid  in  all  that 
relates  to  herself.  Nay,  there  are  moments  when  I  think  I  can 
conquer  all  selfish  feeling,  and  rejoice  for  her  sake  that  she  has 
escaped. me.  Could  I  but  see  her  once  more — I  could — yes! 
I  feel — I  feel  I  could — resign  her  forever!" 

"Humph!"  said  Tomlinson;  "and  what  is  to  become  of  us? 
Really,  my  captain,  your  sense  of  duty  should  lead  you  to  exert 
yourself;  your  friends  starve  before  your  eyes,  while  you  are 
shilly-shallying  about  your  mistress.  Have  you  no  bowels  for 
friendship?" 

"A  truce  with  this  nonsense!"  said  Clifford  angrily. 

"It  is  sense, — sober  sense, — and  sadness  too,"  rejoined 
Tomlinson.  "Ned  is  discontented,  our  debts  are  imperious. 
Suppose  now, — just  suppose, — that  we  take  a  moonlight  flit- 
ting from  Bath,  will  that  tell  well  for  you  whom  we  leave  be- 
hind? Yet  this  we  must  do,  if  you  do  not  devise  some  method 
of  refilling  our  purses.  Either,  then,  consent  to  join  us  in  a 
scheme  meet  for  our  wants,  or  pay  our  debts  in  this  city,  or  fly 
with  us  to  London,  and  dismiss  all  thoughts  of  that  love  which 
is  so  seldom  friendly  to  the  projects  of  ambition." 

Notwithstanding  the  manner  in  which  Tomlinson  made  this 
threefold  proposition,  Clifford  could  not  but  acknowledge  the 
sense  and  justice  contained  in  it;  and  a  glance  at  the  matter 
sufficed  to  show  how  ruinous  to  his  character,  and,  therefore, 
to  his  hopes,  would  be  the  flight  of  his  comrades  and  the 
clamor  of  their  creditors. 

"You  speak  well,  Tomlinson,"  said  he,  hesitating;  "and 
yet  for  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  aid  you  in  any  scheme  which 
may  disgrace  us  by  detection.  Nothing  can  reconcile  me  to 
the  apprehension  of  Miss  Brandon's  discovering  who  and  what 
was  her  suitor." 

"I  feel  for  you,"  said  Tomlinson,  "but  give  me  and  Pepper 
at  least  permission  to  shift  for  ourselves;  trust  to  my  known 
prudence  for  finding  some  method  to  raise  the  wind  without 
creating  a  dust ;  in  other  words — (this  cursed  Pepper  makes 
one  so  vulgar!) — of  preying  on  the  public  without  being  dis- 
covered." 


224  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

"I  see  no  alternative,"  answered  Clifford  reluctantly,  "but, 
if  possible,  be  quiet  for  the  present ;  bear  with  me  for  a  few 
days  longer,  give  me  only  sufficient  time  once  more  to  see  Miss 
Brandon,  and  I  will  engage  to  extricate  you  from  your  diffi- 
culties!" 

"Spoken  like  yourself,  frankly  and  nobly!"  replied  Tom- 
linson:  "no  one  has  a  greater  confidence  in  your  genius,  once 
exerted,  than  I  have!" 

So  saying,  the  pair  shook  hands  and  parted.  Tomlinson 
rejoined  Mr.  Pepper. 

"Well,  have  you  settled  anything?"  quoth  the  latter. 

"Not  exactly ;  and  though  Lovett  has  promised  to  exert  him- 
self in  a  few  days,  yet  as  the  poor  man  is  in  love,  and  his 
genius  under  a  cloud,  I  have  little  faith  in  his  promises." 

"And  I  have  none!"  said  Pepper;  "besides,  time  presses! 
A  few  days! — a  few  devils!  We  are  certainly  scented  here, 
and  I  walk  about  like  a  barrel  of  beer  at  Christmas,  under 
hourly  apprehension  of  being  tapped  !  " 

"It  is  very  strange,"  said  the  philosophic  Augustus;  "but  I 
think  there  is  an  instinct  in  tradesmen  by  which  they  can  tell 
a  rogue  at  first  sight ;  and  I  can  get  (dress  I  ever  so  well)  no 
more  credit  with  my  laundress  than  my  friends  the  Whigs  can 
with  the  people." 

"In  short,  then,"  said  Ned,  "we  must  recur  at  once  to  the 
road ;  and  on  the  day  after  to-morrow  there  will  be  an  excel- 
lent opportunity:  the  old  Earl  with  the  hard  name  gives  a 
breakfast,  or  feast,  or  some  such  mummery.  I  understand  peo- 
ple will  stay  till  after  nightfall;  let  us  watch  our  opportunity; 
we  are  famously  mounted,  and  some  carriage  later  than  the 
general  string  may  furnish  us  with  all  our  hearts  can 
desire!" 

"Bravo!"  cried  Tomlinson,  shaking  Mr.  Pepper  heartily  by 
the  hand;  "I  give  you  joy  of  your  ingenuity,  and  you  may 
trust  to  me  to  make  our  peace  afterwards  with  Lovett.  Any 
enterprise  that  seems  to  him  gallant  he  is  always  willing  enough 
to  forgive;  and  as  he  never  practices  any  other  branch  of  the 
profession  than  that  of  the  road — (for  which  I  confess  that  I 
think  him  foolish), — he  will  be  more  ready  to  look  over  our 
exploits  in  that  line  than  in  any  other  more  subtle  but  less 
heroic." 

"Well,  I  leave  it  to  you  to  propitiate  the  cove  or  not,  as  you 
please ;  and  now  that  we  have  settled  the  main  point,  let  us 
finish  the  lush!" 

"And,"  added  Augustus,  taking  a  pack  of  cards  from  the 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  22$ 

.himney-piece,  "we  can  in  the  mean  while  have  a  quiet  game  at 
cribbage  for  shillings." 

"Done!"  cried  Ned,  clearing  away  the  dessert. 

If  the  redoubted  hearts  of  Mr.  Edward  Pepper,  and  that 
Ulysses  of  robbers,  Augustus  Tomlinson,  beat  high  as  the  hours 
brought  on  Lord  Mauleverer's /<?/<?,  their  leader  was  not  with- 
out anxiety  and  expectation  for  the  same  event.  He  was  unin- 
vited, it  is  true,  to  the  gay  scene ;  but  he  had  heard  in  public 
that  Miss  Brandon,  recovered  from  her  late  illness,  was  cer- 
tainly to  be  there ;  and  Clifford,  torn  with  suspense,  and  eager 
once  more,  even  if  for  the  last  time,  to  see  the  only  person  who 
had  ever  pierced  his  soul  with  a  keen  sense  of  his  errors,  or 
crimes,  resolved  to  risk  all  obstacles,  and  meet  her  at  Maul- 
everer's. 

"My  life,"  said  he,  as  he  sat  alone  in  his  apartment,  eyeing 
the  falling  embers  of  his  still  and  lethargic  fire,  "may  soon  ap- 
proach its  termination;  it  is,  indeed,  out  of  the  chances  of 
things  that  I  can  long  escape  the  doom  of  my  condition ;  and 
when,  as  a  last  hope  to  raise  myself  from  my  desperate  state 
into  respectability  and  reform,  I  came  hither,  and  meditated 
purchasing  independence  by  marriage,  I  was  blind  to  the 
cursed  rascality  of  the  action !  Happy,  after  all,  that  my  in- 
tentions were  directed  against  one  whom  I  so  soon  and  so 
adoringly  learned  to  love!  Had  I  wooed  one  whom  I  loved 
less,  I  might  not  have  scrupled  to  deceive  her  into  marriage. 
As  it  is! — well! — it  is  idle  in  me  to  think  thus  of  my  resolu- 
tion, when  I  have  not  even  the  option  to  choose;  when  her 
father,  perhaps,  has  already  lifted  the  veil  from  my  assumed 
dignities,  and  the  daughter  already  shrinks  in  horror  from  my 
name.  Yet  I  will  see  her!  I  will  look  once  more  upon  that 
angel  face — I  will  hear  from  her  own  lips  the  confession  of  her 
scorn — I  will  see  that  bright  eye  flash  hatred  upon  me,  and  I 
can  then  turn  once  more  to  my  fatal  career,  and  forget  that  I 
have  ever  repented  that  it  was  begun.  Yet,  what  else  could 
have  been  my  alternative?  Friendless,  homeless,  nameless — 
an  orphan,  worse  than  an  orphan — the  son  of  a  harlot,  my 
father  even  unknown!  yet  cursed  with  early  aspirings  and  rest- 
lessness, and  a  half  glimmering  of  knowledge,  and  an  entire 
lust  of  whatever  seemed  enterprise — what  wonder  that  I  chose 
anything  rather  than  daily  labor  and  perpetual  contumely? 
After  all,  the  fault  is  in  fortune,  and  the  world,  not  me!  Oh, 
Lucy !  had  I  but  been  born  in  your  sphere,  had  I  but  pos- 
sessed the  claim  to  merit  you,  what  would  I  not  have  done, 
and  dared,  and  conquered,  for  your  sake1" 


526  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

Such,  or  similar  to  these,  were  the  thoughts  of  Clifford  dur- 
ing the  interval  between  his  resolution  of  seeing  Lucy  and  the 
time  of  effecting  it.  The  thoughts  were  of  no  pleasing, 
though  of  an  exciting  nature;  nor  were  they  greatly  soothed  by 
the  ingenious  occupation  of  cheating  himself  into  the  belief 
that,  if  he  was  a  highwayman,  it  was  altogether  the  fault  of  the 
highways. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Dream.   Let  me  but  see  her,  dear  Leontius. 

— Humorous  Lieutenant. 

Hempskirke.   It  was  the  fellow,  sure. 

Wolf  art.  What  are  you,  sirrah  ? — Beggar  s  Bush. 

O  THOU  divine  spirit,  that  burnest  in  every  breast,  inciting 
each  with  the  sublime  desire  to  be  fine  !  that  stirrest  up  the 
great  to  become  little  in  order  to  seern  greater,  and  that  makest 
a  duchess  woo  insult  for  a  voucher!  Thou  that  delightest  in 
so  many  shapes,  multifarious,  yet  the  same;  spirit  that  makest 
the  high  despicable,  and  the  lord  meaner  than  his  valet ! 
equally  great  whether  thou  cheatest  a  friend,  or  cuttest  a 
father!  lackering  all  thou  touchest  with  a  bright  vulgarity,  that 
thy  votaries  imagine  to  be  gold! — thou  that  sendest  the  few  to 
fashionable  balls  and  the  many  to  fashionable  novels;  that 
smitest  even  Genius  as  well  as  Folly,  making  the  favorites  of 
the  Gods  boast  an  acquaintance  they  have  not  with  the  graces 
of  a  mushroom  peerage,  rather  than  the  knowledge  they 
have  of  the  Muses  of  an  eternal  Helicon! — thou  that  leav- 
est  in  the  great  ocean  of  our  manners  no  dry  spot  for  the  foot 
of  independence ;  that  pallest  on  the  jaded  eye  with  a  moving 
and  girdling  panorama  of  daubed  vilenesses,  and  fritterest 
away  the  souls  of  free-born  Britons  into  a  powder  smaller  than 
the  angels  which  dance  in  myriads  on  a  pin's  point.  Whether, 
O  spirit!  thou  callest  thyself  Fashion,  or  Ton,  or  Ambition,  or 
Vanity,  or  Cringing,  or  Cant,  or  any  title  equally  lofty  and 
sublime — would  that  from  thy  wings  we  could  gain  but  a  single 
plume!  Fain  would  we,  in  fitting  strain,  describe  the  festivi- 
ties of  that  memorable  day,  when  the  benevolent  Lord 
Mauleverer  received  and  blessed  the  admiring  universe  of 
Bath. 

But  to  be  less  poetical,  as  certain  writers  say,  when  they 
have  been  writing  nonsense — but  to  be  less  poetical,  and  more 
exact,  the  morning,  though  in  the  depth  of  winter,  was  bright 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  227 

and  clear,  and  Lord  Mauleverer  found  himself  in  particularly 
good  health.  Nothing  could  be  better  planned  than  the  whole 
of  his  arrangements :  unlike  those  which  are  ordinarily  chosen  for 
the  express  reason  of  being  as  foreign  as  possible  to  the  nature  of 
our  climate,  all  at  Lord  Mauleverer's  were  made  suitable  to 
a  Greenland  atmosphere.  The  temples  and  summer-houses, 
interspersed  through  the  grounds,  were  fitted  up,  some  as 
Esquimaux  huts,  others  as  Russian  pavilions ;  fires  were  care- 
fully kept  up ;  the  musicians  Mauleverer  took  care  should  have 
as  much  wine  as  they  pleased;  they  were  set  skillfully  in  places 
where  they  were  unseen,  but  where  they  could  be  heard.  One 
or  two  temporary  buildings  were  erected  for  those  who  loved 
dancing ;  and  as  Mauleverer,  miscalculating  on  the  principles 
of  human  nature,  thought  gentlemen  might  be  averse  from 
ostentatious  exhibition,  he  had  hired  persons  to  skate  minuets 
and  figures  of  eight  upon  his  lakes,  for  the  amusement  of  those 
who  were  fond  of  skating.  All  people  who  would  be  kind 
enough  to  dress  in  strange  costumes,  and  make  odd  noises, 
which  they  called  singing,  the  Earl  had  carefully  engaged,  and 
planted  in  the  best  places  for  making  them  look  still  stranger 
than  they  were. 

There  was  also  plenty  to  eat,  and  more  than  plenty  to  drink. 
Mauleverer  knew  well  that  our  countrymen  and  country- 
women, whatever  be  their  rank,  like  to  have  their  spirits  exalted. 
In  short,  the  whole  dtjeAner  was  so  admirably  contrived,  that 
it  was  probable  the  guests  would  not  look  much  more  melan- 
choly during  the  amusements,  than  they  would  have  done  had 
they  been  otherwise  engaged  at  a  funeral. 

Lucy  and  the  squire  were  among  the  first  arrivals. 

Mauleverer,  approaching  the  father  and  daughter  with  his 
most  courtly  manner,  insisted  on  taking  the  latter  under  his 
own  esc-ort,  and  being  her  cicerone  through  the  round  of  prep- 
arations. 

As  the  crowd  thickened,  and  it  was  observed  how  gallant 
were  the  attentions  testified  towards  Lucy  by  the  host,  many 
and  envious  were  the  whispers  of  the  guests !  Those  good 
people,  naturally  angry  at  the  thought  that  two  individuals 
should  be  married,  divided  themselves  into  two  parties :  one 
abused  Lucy,  and  the  other  Lord  Mauleverer;  the  former 
vituperated  her  art,  the  latter  his  folly.  "I  thought  she  would 
play  her  cards  well — deceitful  creature!"  said  the  one.  "Jan- 
uary and  May,"  muttered  the  other;  "the  man's  sixty!"  It 
was  noticeable  that  the  party  against  Lucy  was  chiefly  composed 
of  ladies,  that  against  Mauleverer  of  men ;  that  conduct  must 


228  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

indeed  be  heinous  which  draws  down  the  indignation  of  one's 
own  sex! 

Unconscious  of  her  crimes,  Lucy  moved  along,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  the  gallant  Earl,  and  languidly  smiling,  with  her 
heart  far  away,  at  his  endeavors  to  amuse  her.  There  was 
something  interesting  in  the  mere  contrast  of  the  pair;  so 
touching  seemed  the  beauty  of  the  young  girl,  with  her  delicate 
cheek,  maiden  form,  drooping  eyelid,  and  quiet  simplicity  of 
air,  in  comparison  to  the  worldly  countenance  and  artificial 
grace  of  her  companion. 

After  some  time,  when  they  were  in  a  sequestered  part  of  the 
grounds,  Mauleverer,  observing  that  none  were  near,  entered  a 
rude  hut ;  and  so  fascinated  was  he  at  that  moment  by  the 
beauty  of  his  guest,  and  so  meet  to  him  seemed  the  opportu- 
nity of  his  confession,  that  he  with  difficulty  suppressed  the 
avowal  rising  to  his  lips,  and  took  the  more  prudent  plan  of 
first  sounding  and  preparing,  as  it  were,  the  way. 

"I  cannot  tell  you,  my  dear  Miss  Brandon,"  said  he,  slight- 
ly pressing  the  beautiful  hand  leaning  on  his  arm,  "how  happy 
I  am  to  see  you  the  guest — the  queen,  rather — of  my  house! 
Ah!  could  the  bloom  of  youth  return  with  its  feelings!  Time 
is  never  so  cruel  as  when,  while  stealing  from  us  the  power  to 
please,  he  leaves  us  in  full  vigor  the  unhappy  privilege  to  be 
charmed!" 

Mauleverer  expected  at  least  a  blushing  contradiction  to  the 
implied  application  of  a  sentiment  so  affectingly  expressed :  he 
was  disappointed.  Lucy,  less  alive  than  usual  to  the  senti- 
mental, or  its  reverse,  scarcely  perceived  his  meaning,  and  an- 
swered simply,  "That  it  was  very  true."  "This  comes  of 
being,  like  my  friend  Burke,  too  refined  for  one's  audience," 
thought  Mauleverer,  wincing  a  little  from  the  unexpected  reply. 
"And  yet!"  he  resumed,  "I  would  not  forego  my  power  to  ad- 
mire, futile — nay,  painful  as  it  is.  Even  now  while  I  gaze  on 
you,  my  heart  tells  me  that  the  pleasure  I  enjoy,  it  is  at  your 
command,  at  once,  and  for  ever,  to  blight  into  misery ;  but  while 
it  tells  me,  I  gaze  on!" 

Lucy  raised  her  eyes,  and  something  of  her  natural  archness 
played  in  their  expression. 

"I  believe,  my  lord,"  said  she,  moving  from  the  hut,  "that 
it  would  be  better  to  join  your  guests :  walls  have  ears ;  and 
what  would  be  the  gay  Lord  Mauleverer's- self-reproach,  if  he 
heard  again  of  his  fine  compliments  to — ?" 

"The  most  charming  person  in  Europe!"  cried  Mauleverer 
vehemently,  and  the  hand  which  he  before  touched  he  now 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  229 

clasped :  at  that  instant  Lucy  saw  opposite  to  her,  half  hid  by 
a  copse  of  evergreens,  the  figure  of  Clifford.  His  face,  which 
seemed  pale  and  wan,  was  not  directed  towards  the  place  where 
she  stood ;  and  he  evidently  did  not  perceive  Mauleverer  or 
herself,  yet  so  great  was  the  effect  that  this  glimpse  of  him 
produced  on  Lucy,  that  she  trembled  violently,  and,  uncon- 
sciously uttering  a  faint  cry,  snatched  her  hand  from  Mauleverer. 

The  Earl  started,  and,  catching  the  expression  of  her  eyes, 
turned  instantly  towards  the  spot  to  which  her  gaze  seemed 
riveted.  He  had  not  heard  the  rustling  of  the  boughs,  but  he 
saw,  with  his  habitual  quickness  of  remark,  that  they  still 
trembled,  as  if  lately  displaced ;  and  he  caught  through  their 
interstices  the  glimpse  of  a  receding  figure.  He  sprang  forward 
with  an  agility  very  uncommon  to  his  usual  movements ;  but 
before  he  gained  the  copse,  every  vestige  of  the  intruder  had 
vanished. 

What  slaves  we  are  to  the  moment!  As  Mauleverer  turned 
back  to  rejoin  Lucy,  who,  agitated  almost  to  fainting,  leaned 
against  the  rude  wall  of  the  hut,  he  would  as  soon  have  thought 
of  flying  as  of  making  that  generous  offer  of  self,  etc.,  which 
the  instant  before  he  had  been  burning  to  render  Lucy.  The 
vain  are  always  sensitively  jealous,  and  Mauleverer,  remember- 
ing Clifford,  and  Lucy's  blushes  in  dancing  with  him,  instantly 
accounted  for  her  agitation  and  its  cause.  With  a  very  grave 
air  he  approached  the  object  of  his  late  adoration,  and  re- 
quested to  know  if  it  were  not  some  abrupt  intruder  that  had 
occasioned  her  alarm.  Lucy,  scarcely  knowing  what  she  said, 
answered  in  a  low  voice,  "That  it  was,  indeed!"  and  begged 
instantly  to  rejoin  her  father.  Mauleverer  off ered  his  arm  with 
great,  dignity  and  the  pair  passed  into  the  frequented  part  of  the 
grounds,  where  Mauleverer  once  more  brightened  into  smiles 
and  courtesy  to  all  around  him. 

"He  is  certainly  accepted!"  said  Mr.  Shrewd  to  Lady  Sim- 
per. 

"What  an  immense  match  for  the  girl! "was  Lady  Simper's 
reply. 

Amidst  the  music,  the  dancing,  the  throng,  the  noise,  Lucy 
found  it  easy  to  recover  herself;  and  disengaging  her  arm 
from  Lord  Mauleverer,  as  she  perceived  her  father,  she  re- 
joined the  squire,  and  remained  a  patient  listener  to  his  remarks 
till,  late  in  the  noon,  it  became  an  understood  matter  that 
people  were  expected  to  go  into  a  long  room  in  order  to  eat 
and  drink.  Mauleverer,  now  alive  to  the  duties  of  his  situa- 
tion, and  feeling  exceedingly  angry  with  Lucy,  was  more  rec- 


230  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

onciled  than  he  otherwise  might  have  been  to  the  etiquette 
which  obliged  him  to  select  for  the  object  of  his  hospitable 
cares  an  old  dowager  duchess  instead  of  the  beauty  of  the  fete  ; 
but  he  took  care  to  point  out  to  the  squire  the  places  appointed 
for  himself  and  daughter,  which  were,  though  at  some  distance 
from  the  Earl,  under  the  providence  of  his  vigilant  survey. 

While  Mauleverer  was  deifying  the  dowager  duchess,  and 
refreshing  his  spirits  with  a  chicken  and  a  medicinal  glass  of 
Madeira,  the  conversation  near  Lucy  turned,  to  her  infinite 
dismay,  upon  Clifford.  Some  one  had  seen  him  in  the  grounds, 
booted,  and  in  a  riding  undress — (in  that  day  people  seldom 
rode  and  danced  in  the  same  conformation  of  coat), — and  as 
Mauleverer  was  a  precise  person  about  those  little  matters  of 
etiquette,  this  negligence  of  Clifford's  made  quite  a  subject  of 
discussion.  By  degrees  the  conversation  changed  into  the  old 
inquiry  as  to  who  this  Captain  Clifford  was ;  and  just  as  it  had 
reached  that  point,  it  reached  also  the  gently  deafened  ears  of 
Lord  Mauleverer. 

"Pray,  my  lord,"  said  the  old  duchess,  "since  he  is  one  of 
your  guests,  you,  who  know  who  and  what  every  one  is,  can 
possibly  inform  us  of  the  real  family  of  this  beautiful  Mr.  Clif- 
ford?" 

"One  of  my  guests,  did  you  say?"  answered  Mauleverer,  ir- 
ritated greatly  beyond  his  usual  quietness  of  manner:  "really, 
your  grace  does  me  wrong.  He  may  be  a  guest  of  my  valet, 
but  he  assuredly  is  riot  mine ;  and  should  I  encounter  him,  I 
shall  leave  it  to  my  valet  to  give  him  his  conge'  as  well  as  his 
invitation!" 

Mauleverer,  heightening  his  voice  as  he  observed  athwart 
the  table  an  alternate  paleness  and  flush  upon  Lucy's  face, 
which  stung  all  the  angrier  passions,  generally  torpid  in  him, 
into  venom,  looked  round,  on  concluding,  with  a  haughty  and 
sarcastic  air:  so  loud  had  been  his  tone,  so  pointed  the  insult, 
and  so  dead  the  silence  at  the  table  while  he  spoke,  that  every 
one  felt  the  affront  must  be  carried  at  once  to  Clifford's  hear- 
ing, should  he  be  in  the  room.  And  after  Mauleverer  had 
ceased,  there  was  an  universal  nervous  and  indistinct  expecta- 
tion of  an  answer  and  a  scene ;  all  was  still,  and  it  soon  be- 
came certain  that  Clifford  was  not  in  the  apartment.  When 
Mr.  Shrewd  had  fully  convinced  himself  of  this  fact — (for  there 
was  a  daring  spirit  about  Clifford  which  few  wished  to  draw 
upon  themselves), — that  personage  broke  the  pause  by  observing 
that  no  man,  who  pretended  to  be  a  gentleman,  would  intrude 
himself,  unasked  and  unwelcome,  into  any  society ;  and  Maul- 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  2^1 

everer,  catching  up  the  observation  said — (drinking  wine  at  the 
same  time  with  Mr.  Shrewd), — that  undoubtedly  such  conduct 
fully  justified  the  rumors  respecting  Mr.  Clifford  and  utterly 
excluded  him  from  that  rank  to  which  it  was  before  more  than 
suspected  he  had  no  claim. 

So  luminous  and  satisfactory  an  opinion  from  such  an  au- 
thority, once  broached,  was  immediately  and  universally  echoed ; 
and  long  before  the  repast  was  over  it  seemed  to  be  tacitly 
agreed  that  Captain  Clifford  should  be  sent  to  Coventry,  and  if 
he  murmured  at  the  exile,  he  would  have  no  right  to  insist  upon 
being  sent  thence  to  the  devil. 

The  good  old  squire  mindful  of  his  former  friendship  for 
Clifford  and  not  apt  to  veer,  was  about  to  begin  a  speech  on 
the  occasion,  when  Lucy,  touching  his  arm,  implored  him  to  be 
silent;  and  so  ghastly  was  the  paleness  of  her  cheek  while  she 
spoke,  that  the  squire's  eyes,  obtuse  as  he  generally  was, 
opened  at  once  to  the  real  secret  of  her  heart.  As  soon  as 
the  truth  flashed  upon  him,  he  wondered,  recalling  Clifford's 
great  personal  beauty  and  marked  attentions,  that  it  had  not 
flashed  upon  him  sooner ;  and  leaning  back  on  his  chair,  he 
sunk  into  one  of  the  most  unpleasant  reveries  he  had  ever  con- 
ceived. 

At  a  given  signal  the  music  for  the  dancers  recommenced, 
and,  at  a  hint  to  that  effect  from  the  host,  persons  rose  with- 
out ceremony  to  repair  to  other  amusements,  and  suffer  such 
guests  as  had  hitherto  been  excluded  from  eating  to  occupy 
the  place  of  the  relinquishers.  Lucy,  glad  to  escape,  was  one 
of  the  first  to  resign  her  situation,  and  with  the  squire  she  re- 
turned to  the  grounds.  During  the  banquet,  evening  had  closed 
in,  and  the  scene  now  really  became  fairylike  and  picturesque; 
lamps  hung  from  many  a  tree,  reflecting  the  light  through  the 
richest  and  softest  hues, — the  music  itself  sounded  more  musical- 
ly than  during  the  day, — gypsy-tents  were  pitched  at  wild  cor- 
ners and  copses,  and  the  bright  wood-fires  burning  in  them 
blazed  merrily  upon  the  cold  yet  cheerful  air  of  the  increasing 
night.  The  view  was  really  novel  and  inviting;  and  as  it  had 
been  an  understood  matter  that  ladies  were  to  bring  furs,  cloaks, 
and  boots,  all  those  who  thought  they  looked  well  in  such  array 
made  little  groups,  and  scattered  themselves  about  the  grounds 
and  in  the  tents.  They,  on  the  contrary,  in  whom  "the  purple 
light  of  love"  was  apt  by  the  frost  to  be  propelled  from  the 
cheeks  to  the  central  ornament  of  the  face,  or  who  thought  a 
fire  in  a  room  quite  as  agreeable  as  a  fire  in  a  tent,  remained 
within,  and  contemplated  the  scene  through  the  open  windows. 


232  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

Lucy  longed  to  return  home,  nor  was  the  squire  reluctant; 
but,  unhappily,  it  wanted  an  hour  to  the  time  at  which  the 
carriage  had  been  ordered,  and  she  mechanically  joined  a 
group  of  guests,  who  had  persuaded  the  good-natured  squire  to 
forget  his  gout,  and  venture  forth  to  look  at  the  illuminations. 
Her  party  was  soon  joined  by  others,  and  the  group  gradually 
thickened  into  a  crowd;  the  throng  was  stationary  for  a  few 
minutes  before  a  little  temple,  in  which  fireworks  had  just  com- 
menced an  additional  attraction  to  the  scene.  Opposite  to  this 
temple,  as  well  as  in  its  rear,  the  walks  and  trees  had  been  pur- 
posely left  in  comparative  darkness,  in  order  to  heighten  the 
effect  of  the  fireworks. 

"I  declare,"  said  Lady  Simper,  glancing  down  one  of  the 
alleys  which  seemed  to  stretch  away  into  blackness, — "I  de- 
clare it  seems  quite  a  lovers'  walk !  how  kind  in  Lord  Maul- 
everer! — such  a  delicate  attention — " 

"To  your  ladyship!"  added  Mr.  Shrewd,  with  a  bow. 

While,  one  of  this  crowd,  Lucy  was  vacantly  eyeing  the  long 
trains  of  light  which  ever  and  anon  shot  against  the  sky,  she 
felt  her  hand  suddenly  seized,  and  at  the  same  time  a  voice 
whispered,  "For  God's  sake,  read  this  now  .and  grant  my  re- 
quest!" 

The  voice,  which  seemed  to  rise  from  the  very  heart  of  the 
speaker,  Lucy  knew  at  once;  she  trembled  violently,  and  re- 
mained for  some  minutes  with  eyes  which  did  not  dare  to  look 
from  the  ground.  A  note  she  felt  had  been  left  in  her  hand, 
and  the  agonized  and  earnest  tone  of  that  voice,  which  was 
dearer  to  her  ear  than  the  fullness  of  all  music,  made  her  im- 
patient yet  afraid  to  read  it.  As  she  recovered  courage  she 
looked  around,  and  seeing  that  the  attention  of  all  was  bent 
upon  the  fireworks,  and  that  her  father,  in  particular,  leaning 
on  his  cane,  seemed  to  enjoy  the  spectacle  with  a  child's  en- 
grossed delight,  she  glided  softly  away,  and  entering  unper- 
ceived  one  of  the  alleys,  she  read,  by  a  solitary  lamp  that 
burned  at  its  entrance,  the  following  lines  written  in  pencil  and 
in  a  hurried  hand,  apparently  upon  a  leaf  torn  from  a  pocket- 
book  : 

"I  implore — I  entreat  you,  Miss  Brandon,  to  see  me,  if  but 
for  a  moment.  I  purpose  to  tear  myself  away  from  the  place 
in  which  you  reside — to  go  abroad — to  leave  even  the  spot  hal- 
lowed by  your  footstep.  After  this  night,  my  presence,  my 
presumption,  will  degrade  you  no  more.  But  this  night,  for 
mercy's  sake,  see  me  or  I  shall  go  mad!  I  will  but  speak  to 
y<ju  one  instant:  this  is  all  I  ask.  If  you  grant  me  this  prayer, 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  2$$ 

the  walk  to  the  left  where  you  stand,  at  the  entrance  to  which 
there  is  one  purple  lamp,  will  afford  an  opportunity  to  your 
mercy.  A  few  yards  down  that  walk  I  will  meet  you — none 
can  see  or  hear  us.  Will  you  grant  this?  I  know  not — I  dare 
not  think :  but  under  any  case,  your  name  shall  be  the  last 
upon  my  lips.  p  ~  ,,- 

As  Lucy  read  this  hurried  scrawl,  she  glanced  towards  the 
lamp  above  her,  and  saw  that  she  had  accidentally  entered  the 
very  walk  indicated  in  the  note.  She  paused — she  hesitated ; 
— the  impropriety — the  singularity  of  the  request,  darted  upon 
her  at  once ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  anxious  voice  still  ringing 
in  her  ear,  the  incoherent  vehemence  of  the  note,  the  risk,  the 
opprobrium  Clifford  had  incurred,  solely — her  heart  whispered — 
to  see  her,  all  aided  her  simple  temper,  her  kind  feelings,  and 
her  love  for  the  petitioner,  in  inducing  her  to  consent.  She 
cast  one  glance  behind, — all  seemed  occupied  with  far  other 
thoughts  than  that  of  notice  towards  her;  she  looked  anxiously 
before, — all  looked  gloomy  and  indistinct;  but  suddenly,  at 
some  little  distance,  she  descried  a  dark  figure  in  motion. 
She  felt  her  knees  shake  under  her,  her  heart  beat  violently ; 
she  moved  onward  a  few  paces,  again  paused,  and  looked  back ; 
the  figure  before  her  moved  as  in  approach,  she  resumed  cour- 
age, and  advanced — the  figure  was  by  her  side. 

"How  generous,  how  condescending,  is  this  goodness  in  Miss 
Brandon!"  said  the  voice,  which  so  struggled  with  secret  and 
strong  emotion,  that  Lucy  scarcely  recognized  it  as  Clifford's. 
"I  did  not  dare  to  expect  it;  and  now — now  that  I  meet 
you — "  Clifford  paused,  as  if  seeking  words;  and  Lucy, 
even  through  the  dark,  perceived  that  her  strange  companion 
was  powerfully  excited ;  she  waited  for  him  to  continue,  but 
observing  that  he  walked  on  in  silence,  she  said,  though  with  a 
trembling  voice,  "Indeed,  Mr.  Clifford,  I  fear  that  it  is  very, 
very  improper  in  me  to  meet  you  thus;  nothing  but  the  strong 
expressions  in  your  letter — and — and — in  short  my  fear  that 
you  meditated  some  desperate  design,  at  which  I  could  not 
guess,  caused  me  to  yield  to  your  wish  for  an  interview."  She 
paused,  and  Clifford  still  preserving  silence,  she  added,  with 
some  little  coldness  in  her  tone,  "If  you  have  really  aught  to 
say  to  me,  you  must  allow  me  to  request  that  you  speak  it 
quickly.  This  interview,  you  must  be  sensible,  ought  to  end 
almost  as  soon  as  it  begins." 

"Hear  me  then!"  said  Clifford,  masteringhis  embarassment, 
and  speaking  in  a  firm  and  clear  voice — "is  that  true,  which  I 


234  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

have  but  just  heard. — is  it  true  that  I  have  been  spoken  of  in 
your  presence  in  terms  of  insult  and  affront?" 

It  was  now  for  Lucy  to  feel  embarrassed ;  fearful  to  give 
pain,  and  yet  anxious  that  Clifford  should  know,  in  order  that 
he  might  disprove,  the  slight  and  the  suspicion  which  the 
mystery  around  him  drew  upon  his  name,  she  faltered  between 
the  two  feelings,  and,  without  satisfying  the  latter,  succeeded  in 
realizing  the  fear  of  the  former. 

"Enough!"  said  Clifford  in  a  tone  of  deep  mortification,  as 
his  quick  ear  caught  and  interpreted,  yet  more  humiliatingly 
than  the  truth,  the  meaning  of  her  stammered  and  confused 
reply.  "Enough!  I  see  that  it  is  true,  and  that  the  only  hu- 
man being  in  the  world  to  whose  good  opinion  I  am  not  in- 
different has  been  a  witness  of  the  insulting  manner  in  which 
others  have  dared  to  speak  of  me!" 

"But."  said  Lucy,  eagerly,  "why  give  the  envious  or  the  idle 
any  excuse?  Why  not  suffer  your  parentage  and  family  to  be 
publicly  known?  Why  are  you  here" — (and  her  voice  sunk 
into  a  lower  key) — "this  very  day,  unasked,  and  therefore 
subject  to  the  cavils  of  all  who  think  the  poor  distinction  of  an 
invitation  an  honor?  Forgive  me,  Mr.  Clifford,  perhaps  I  of- 
fend,— I  hurt  you  by  speaking  thus  frankly ;  but  your  good 
name  rests  with  yourself,  and  your  friends  cannot  but  feel 
angry  that  you  should  trifle  with  it.'" 

"Madam!"  said  Clifford,  and  Lucy's  eyes,  now  growing 
accustomed  to  the  darkness,  perceived  a  bitter  smile  upon  his 
lips,  "my  name,  good  or  ill,  is  an  object  of  little  care  to  me. 
I  have  read  of  philosophers  who  pride  themselves  in  placing  no 
value  in  the  opinions  of  the  world.  Rank  me  among  that  sect — 
but  I  am,  I  own  I  am,  anxious  that  you  alone,  of  all  the  world, 
should  not  despise  me ;  and  now  that  I  feel  you  do — that  you 
must — everything  worth  living  or  hoping  for  is  past!" 

"Despise  you!"  said  Lucy,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears ;  "in- 
deed you  Ayrong  me  and  yourself.  But  listen  to  me,  Mr.  Clif- 
ford: I  have  seen,  it  is  true,  but  little  of  the  world,  yet  I  have 
seen  enough  to  make  me  wish  I  could  have  lived  in  retirement 
for  ever;  the  rarest  quality  among  either  sex,  though  it  is  the 
simplest,  seems  to  me  good-nature ;  and  the  only  occupation 
of  what  are  termed  fashionable  people  appears  to  be  speaking 
ill  of  one  another :  nothing  gives  such  a  scope  to  scandal  as  mys- 
ery;  nothing  disarms  it  like  openness.  I  know — your  friends 
know,  Mr.  Clifford,  that  your  character  can  bear  inspection, 
and  I  believe,  for  my  own  part,  the  same  of  your  family.  Why 
not,  then,  declare  who  and  what  you  are?" 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  235 

"That  candor  would  indeed  be  my  best  defender,"  said  Clif- 
ford, in  a  tone  which  ran  displeasingly  through  Lucy's  ear; 
"but  in  truth,  madam,  I  repeat,  I  care  not  one  drop  of  this 
worthless  blood  what  men  say  of  me ;  that  time  has  passed,  and 
forever:  perhaps  it  never  keenly  existed  for  me — no  matter. 
I  came  hither,  Miss  Brandon,  not  wasting  a  thought  on  these 
sickening  fooleries,  or  on  the  hoary  idler  by  whom  they  are 
given!  I  came  hither,  only  once  more  to  see  you — to  hear  you 
speak — to  watch  you  move — to  tell  you  (and  the  speaker's 
voice  trembled,  so  as  to  be  scarcely  audible) — to  tell  you,  if  any 
reason  for  the  disclosure  offered  itself,  that  I  have  had  the  bold- 
ness— the  crime  to  love — to  love — O  God !  to  adore  you !  and 
then  to  leave  you  for  ever!" 

Pale,  trembling,  scarcely  preserved  from  falling  by  the  tree 
against  which  she  leaned,  Lucy  listened  to  this  abrupt  avowal. 

"Dare  I  touch  this  hand,"  continued  Clifford,  as  he  knelt 
and  took  it,  timidly  and  reverently:  "you  know  not,  you  can- 
not dream,  how  unworthy  is  he  who  thus  presumes — yet,  not 
all  unworthy,  while  he  is  sensible  of  so  deep,  so  holy  a  feeling  as 
that  which  he  bears  to  you.  God  bless  you,  Miss  Brandon! — 
Lucy,  God  bless  you! — and  if,  hereafter,  you  hear  me  sub- 
jected to  still  blacker  suspicion,  or  severer  scrutiny,  than  that 
which  I  now  sustain — if  even  your  charity  and  goodness  can 
find  no  defence  for  me, — if  the  suspicion  become  certainty,  and 
the  scrutiny  end  in  condemnation,  believe,  at  least,  that  cir- 
cumstances have  carried  me  beyond  my  nature ;  and  that  under 
fairer  auspices  I  might  have  been  other  than  I  am!"  Lucy's 
tear  dropped  upon  Clifford's  hand,  as  he  spoke;  and  while  his 
heart  melted  within  him  as  he  felt  it,  and  knew  his  own  des- 
perate and  unredeemed  condition,  he  added: 

"Every  one  courts  you — the  proud,  the  rich,  the  young,  the 
high-born,  all  are  at  your  feet!  You  will  select  one  of  that 
number  for  your  husband:  may  he  watch  over  you  as  I  would 
have  done! — love  you  as  I  do  he  cannot!  Yes,  I  repeat  it!" 
continued  Clifford  vehemently,  "he  cannot!  None  amidst  the 
gay,  happy,  silken  crowd  of  your  equals  and  followers  can  feel 
for  you  that  single  and  overruling  passion,  which  makes  you  to 
me  what  all  combined — country,  power,  wealth,  reputation, 
an  honest  name,  peace,  common  safety,  the  quiet  of  the 
common  air,  alike  the  least  blessing  and  the  greatest — are  to  all 
others !  Once  more,  may  God  in  heaven  watch  over  you  and 
preserve  you !  I  tear  myself,  on  leaving  you,  from  all  that 
cheers,  or  blesses,  or  raises,  or  might  have  saved  me! — Fare- 
well!" 


236  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

The  hand  which  Lucy  had  relinquished  to  her  strange  suitor 
was  pressed  ardently  to  his  lips,  dropped  in  the  same  instant, 
and  she  knew  that  she  was  once  more  alone. 

But  Clifford,  hurrying  rapidly  through  the  trees,  made  his 
way  towards  the  nearest  gate  which  led  from  Lord  Mauleverer's 
domain ;  when  he  reached  it,  a  crowd  of  the  more  elderly 
guests  occupied  the  entrance,  and  one  of  these  was  a  lady  of  such 
distincti®n,  that  Mauleverer,  in  spite  of  his  aversion  to  any 
superfluous  exposure  to  the  night  air.  had  obliged  himself  to 
conduct  her  to  her  carriage.  He  was  in  a  very  ill  humor  with 
this  constrained  politeness,  especially  as  the  carriage  was  very 
slow  in  relieving  him  of  his  charge,  when  he  saw,  by  the  lamp- 
light, Clifford  passing  near  him,  and  winning  his  way  to  the 
gate.  Quite  forgetting  his  worldly  prudence,  which  should  have 
made  him  averse  to  scenes  with  any  one,  especially  with  a  fly- 
ing enemy,  and  a  man  with  whom,  if  he  believed  aright,  little 
glory  was  to  be  gained  in  conquest,  much  less  in  contest ;  and 
only  remembering  Clifford's  rivalship,  and  his  own  hatred  to- 
wards him  for  the  presumption,  Mauleverer  uttering  a  hurried 
apology  to  the  lady  on  his  arm,  stepped  forward,  and  opposing 
Clifford's  progress,  said,  with  a  bow  of  tranquil  insult,  "Par- 
don me,  sir,  but  is  it  at  my  invitation,  or  that  of  one  of  my 
servants,  that  you  have  honored  me  with  your  company  this 
day?" 

Clifford's  thoughts  at  the  time  of  this  interruption  were  of 
that  nature  before  which  all  petty  misfortunes  shrink  into 
nothing;  if,  therefore,  he  started  for  a  moment  at  the  earl's 
address,  he  betrayed  no  embarassment  in  reply,  but  bowing 
with  an  air  of  respect,  and  taking  no  notice  of  the  affront  im- 
plied in  Mauleverer's  speech,  he  answered: 

"Your  lordship  has  only  to  deign  a  glance  at  my  dress,  to 
see  that  I  have  not  intruded  myself  on  your  grounds  with  the 
intention  of  claiming  your  hospitality.  The  fact  is,  and  I  trust 
to  your  lordship's  courtesy  to  admit  the  excuse,  that  I  leave 
this  neighborhood  to-morrow,  and  for  some  length  of  time.  A 
person  whom  I  was  very  anxious  to  see  before  I  left  was  one 
of  your  lordship's  guests ;  I  heard  this  and  knew  that  I  should 
have  no  other  opportunity  of  meeting  the  person  in  question  be- 
fore my  departure;  and  I  must  now  throw  myself  on  the  well- 
known  politeness  of  Lord  Mauleverer,  to  pardon  a  freedom 
originating  in  a  business  very  much  approaching  to  a  neces- 
sity!" 

Lord  Mauleverer's  address  to  Clifford  had  congregated  an 
immediate  crowd  of    eager   and  expectant   listeners,   but   so 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  237 

quietly  respectful  and  really  gentlemanlike  were  Clifford's  ait 
and  tone  in  excusing  himself,  that  the  whole  throng  were  smit- 
ten with  a  sudden  disappointment. 

Lord  Mauleverer  himself,  surprised  by  the  temper  and  de- 
portment of  the  unbidden  guest,  was  at  a  loss  for  one  moment ; 
and  Clifford  was  about  to  take  advantage  of  that  moment  and 
glide  away,  when  Mauleverer,  with  a  second  bow,  more  civil 
than  the  former  one,  said : 

"I  cannot  but  be  happy,  sir,  that  my  poor  place  has  afforded 
you  any  convenience;  but,  if  I  am  not  very  impertinent,  will 
you  allow  me  to  inquire  the  name  of  my  guest  with  whom  you 
required  a  meeting?" 

"My  lord,"  said  Clifford,  drawing  himself  up,  and  speaking 
gravely  and  sternly,  though  still  with  a  certain  deference — "I 
need  not  surely  point  out  to  your  lordship's  good  sense  and 
good  feeling,  that  your  very  question  implies  a  doubt,  and,  con- 
sequently, an  affront,  and  that  the  tone  of  it  is  not  such  as  to 
justify  that  concession  on  my  part  which  the  farther  explana- 
tion you  require  would  imply!" 

Few  spoken  sarcasms  could  be  so  bitter  as  that  silent  one 
which  Mauleverer  could  command  by  a  smile,  and,  with  this 
complimentary  expression  on  his  thin  lips  and  raised  brow,  the 
Earl  answered :  ' '  Sir,  I  honor  the  skill  testified  by  your  reply ; 
it  must  be  the  result  of  a  profound  experience  in  these  affairs. 
I  wish  you,  sir,  a  very  good  night ;  and  the  next  time  you  favor 
me  with  a  visit,  I  am  quite  sure  that  your  motives  for  so 
indulging  me  will  be  no  less  creditable  to  you  than  at 
present." 

With  these  words,  Mauleverer  turned  to  rejoin  his  fair 
charge.  But  Clifford  was  a  man  who  had  seen  in  a  short  time 
a  great  deal  of  the  world,  and  knew  tolerably  well  the  theories  of 
society,  if  not  the  practice  of  its  minutiae ;  moreover,  he  was 
of  an  acute  and  resolute  temper,  and  these  properties  of  mind, 
natural  and  acquired,  told  him  that  he  was  now  in  a  situation 
in  which  it  had  become  more  necessary  too  defy  than  to  con- 
ciliate. Instead  therefore  of  retiring  he  walked  deliberately  up 
to  Mauleverer,  and  said : 

"My  lord,  I  shall  leave  it  to  the  judgment  of  your  guests  to 
decide  whether  you  have  acted  the  part  of  a  nobleman  and  a 
gentleman  in  thus,  in  your  domains,  insulting  one  who  has  given 
you  such  explanation  of  his  trespass  as  would  fully  excuse  him 
in  the  eyes  of  all  considerate  or  courteous  persons.  I  shall  also 
leave  it  to  them  to  decide  whether  the  tone  of  your  inquiry 
allowed  me  to  give  you  any  farther  apology.  But  I  shall  take 


338  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

it  upon  myself,  my  lord,  to  demand  from  you  an  immediate 
explanation  of  your  last  speech." 

"Insolent!"  cried  Mauleverer,  coloring  with  indignation,  and 
almost  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  losing  absolute  command 
over  his  temper;  "do  you  bandy  words  with  me? — 'Begone, 
or  I  shall  order  my  servants  to  thrust  you  forth!" 

"Begone,  sir! — begone!"  cried  several  voices  in  echo  to 
Mauleverer,  from  those  persons  who  deemed  it  now  high  time 
to  take  part  with  the  powerful. 

Clifford  stood  his  ground,  gazing  around  with  a  look  of 
angry  and  defying  contempt,  which,  joined  to  his  athletic  frame, 
his  dark  and  fierce  eye,  and  a  heavy  riding-whip,  which,  as  if 
mechanically,  he  half  raised,  effectually  kept  the  murmurers 
from  proceeding  to  violence. 

"Poor  pretender  .to  breeding  and  to  sense!"  said  he,  dis- 
dainfully turning  to  Mauleverer;  "with  one  touch  of  this  whip 
I  could  shame  you  forever,  or  compel  you  to  descend  from  the 
level  of  your  rank  to  that  of  mine,  and  the  action  would  be  but 
a  mild  return  to  your  language.  But  I  love  rather  to  teach  you 
than  to  correct.  According  to  my  creed,  my  lord,  he  con- 
quers most  in  good  breeding  who  forbears  the  most — scorn  en- 
bles  me  to  forbear! — Adieu!" 

With  this,  Clifford  turned  on  his  heel  and  strode  away.  A 
murmur,  approaching  to  a  groan,  from  the  younger  or  sillier 
part  of  the  parasites  (the  mature  and  the  sensible  have  no  extra 
emotion  to  throw  away),  followed  him  as  he  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Outlaw.  Stand,  sir,  and  throw  us  that  you  have  about  you  ! 
Val.  Ruffians,  forego  that  rude,  uncivil  touch  ! 

—  7 'wo  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

ON  leaving  the  scene  in  which  he  had  been  so  unwelcome  a 
guest,  Clifford  hastened  to  the  little  inn  where  he  had  left  his 
horse.  He  mounted  and  returned  to  Bath.  His  thoughts  we.re 
absent,  and  he  unconsciously  suffered  the  horse  to  direct  its 
course  whither  it  pleased.  This  was  naturally  towards  the 
nearest  halting-place  which  the  animal  remembered;  and  this 
halting-place  was  at  that  illustrious  tavern,  in  the  suburbs  of 
the  *own,  in  which  we  have  before  commemorated  Clifford's  re- 
election to  the  dignity  of  chief.  It  was  a  house  of  long-estab- 
lished reputation ;  and  here  news  of  any  of  the  absent  confeder- 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  2^0 

ates  was  always  to  be  obtained.  This  circumstance,  added  to 
the  excellence  of  its  drink,  its  ease,  and  the  electric  chain  of  early 
habits,  rendered  it  a  favorite  haunt,  even  despite  their  present 
gay  and  modish  pursuits,  with  Tomlinson  and  Pepper;  and 
here,  when  Clifford  sought  the  pair  at  unseasonable  hours,  was 
he  for  the  most  part  sure  to  find  them.  As  his  meditations 
were  interrupted  by  the  sudden  stopping  of  his  horse  beneath 
the  well-known  sign,  Clifford,  muttering  an  angry  malediction 
on  the  animal,  spurred  it  onward  in  the  direction  of  his  own 
home.  He  had  already  reached  the  end  of  the  street,  when 
his  resolution  seemed  to  change,  and  muttering  to  himself,  "Ay, 
I  might  as  well  arrange  this  very  night  for  our  departure!"  he 
turned  his  horse's  head  backward,  and  was  once  more  at  the 
tavern  door.  He  threw  the  bridle  over  an  iron  railing,  and 
knocking  with  a  peculiar  sound  at  the  door,  was  soon  admitted. 

"Are and here?"  asked  he  of  the  old  woman,  asne 

entered,  mentioning  the  cant  words  by  which,  among  friends, 
Tomlinson  and  Pepper  were  usually  known.  "They  are  both 
gone  on  the  sharps  to-night,"  replied  the  old  lady,  lifting  her 
unsnuffed  candle  to  the  face  of  the  speaker,  with  an  intelligent 
look.  "Oliver*  is  sleepy,  and  the  lads  will  take  advantage  of 
his  nap." 

"Do  you  mean,"  answered  Clifford,  replying  in  the  same 
key,  which  we  take  the  liberty  to  paraphrase,  "that  they  are 
out  on  any  actual  expedition?" 

"To  be  sure,"  rejoined  the  dame.  "They  who  lag  late  on 
the  road  may  want  money  for  supper!" 

"Ha!   which  road?" 

"You  are  a  pretty  fellow  for  captain!"  rejoined  the  dame, 
with  a  good-natured  sarcasm  in  her  tone.  "Why,  Captain 
Gloak,  poor  fellow!  knew  every  turn  of  his  men  to  a  hair,  and 
never  needed  to  ask  what  they  were  about.  Ah,  he  was  a  fel- 
low !  none  of  your  girl-faced  mudgers,  who  make  love  to  ladies, 
forsooth — a  pretty  woman  need  not  look  far  for  a  kiss  when  he 
was  in  the  room,  I  warrant,  however  coarse  her  duds  might  be; 
and  lauk !  but  the  captain  was  a  sensible  man,  and  liked  a  cow 
as  well  as  a  calf." 

"So,  so!  on  the  road  are  they?"  cried  Clifford  musingly, 
and  without  heeding  the  insinuated  attack  on  his  decorum. 
"But  answer  me,  what  is  the  plan? — Be  quick." 

"Why,"  replied  the  dame,  "there's  some  swell  cove  of  a  lord 
gives  a  blow-out  to-day,  and  the  lads,  dear  souls!  think  to 
play  the  queer  on  some  straggler." 

*  The  moan. 


240  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

Without  uttering  a  word,  Clifford  darted  from  the  house,  and 
was  remounted  before  the  old  lady  had  time  to  recover  her 
surprise. 

"If  you  want  to  see  them,"  cried  she,  as  he  put  spurs  to  his 
horse,  "they  ordered  me  to  have  supper  ready  at — "  The 
horse's  hoofs  drowned  the  last  words  of  the  dame,  and  care- 
fully rebolting  the  door,  and  muttering  an  invidious  compar- 
ison between  Captain  Clifford  and  Captain  Gloak,  the  good 
landlady  returned  to  those  culinary  operations  destined  to 
rejoice  the  hearts  of  Tomlinson  and  Pepper. 

,  Return  we  ourselves  to  Lucy.  It  so  happened  that  the 
squire's  carriage  was  the  last  to  arrive ;  for  the  coachman,  long 
uninitiated  among  the  shades  of  Warlock  into  the  dissipation 
of  fashionable  life,  entered  on  his  debut  at  Bath,  with  all  the 
vigorous  heat  of  matured  passions  for  the  first  time  released, 
into  the  festivities  of  the  ale-house,  and  having  a  milder  mas- 
ter than  most  of  his  comrades,  the  fear  of  displeasure  was  less 
strong  in  his  aurigal  bosom  than  the  love  of  companionship;  so 
that  during  the  time  this  gentleman  was  amusing  himself,  Lucy 
had  ample  leisure  for  enjoying  all  the  thousand-and-one  reports 
of  the  scene  between  Mauleverer  and  Clifford,  which  regaled 
her  ears.  Nevertheless,  whatever  might  have  been  her  feelings 
at  these  pleasing  recitals,  a  certain  vague  joy  predominated 
over  all.  A  man  feels  but  slight  comparative  happiness  in 
being  loved,  if  he  know  that  rt  is  vain.  But  to  a  woman  that 
simple  knowledge  is  sufficient  to  destroy  the  memory  of  a  thou- 
sand distresses,  and  it  is  not  till  she  has  told  her  heart  again 
and  again  that  she  is  loved,  that  she  will  even  begin  to  ask  if 
it  be  in  vain. 

It  was  a  partially  starlit,  yet  a  dim  and  obscure  night,  for 
the  moon  had  for  the  last  hour  or  two  been  surrounded  by  mist 
and  cloud,  when  at  length  the  carriage  arrived ;  and  Maul- 
everer, for  the  second  time  that  evening  playing  the  escort,  con- 
ducted Lucy  to  the  vehicle.  Anxious  to  learn  if  she  had  seen 
or  been  addressed  by  Clifford,  the  subtle  Earl,  as  he  led  her  to 
the  gate,  dwelt  particularly  on  the  intrusion  of  that  person,  and 
by  the  trembling  of  the  hand  which  rested  on  his  arm,  he  drew 
no  delicious  omen  for  his  own  hopes.  "However,"  thought 
he,  "the  man  goes  to-morrow,  and  then  the  field  will  be  clear; 
the  girl's  a  child  yet,  and  I  forgive  her  folly."  And  with  an 
air  of  chivalric  veneration,  Mauleverer,  bowed  the  object  of 
his  pardon  into  her  carriage. 

As  soon  as  Lucy  felt  herself  alone  with  her  father,  the  emo- 
tions so  long  pent  within  her  forced  themselves  into  vent,  and 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  HI 

leaning  back  against  the  carriage  she  wept,  though  in  silence, 
tears,  burning  tears,  of  sorrow,  comfort,  agitation,  anxiety. 

The  good  old  squire  was  slow  in  perceiving  his  daughter's 
emotion ;  it  would  have  escaped  him  altogether,  if,  actuated  by 
a  kindly  warming  of  the  heart  towards  her,  originating  in  his 
new  suspicion  of  her  love  for  Clifford,  he  had  not  put  his  arm 
round  her  neck;  and  this  unexpected  caress  so  entirely  un- 
strung her  nerves,  that  Lucy  at  once  threw  herself  upon  her 
father's  breast,  and  her  weeping,  hitherto  so  quiet,  became 
distinct  and  audible. 

"Be  comforted,  my  dear,  dear  child!"  said  the  squire, 
almost  affected  to  tears  himself;  and  his  emotion,  arousing 
him  from  his  usual  mental  confusion,  rendered  his  words  less 
involved  and  equivocal  than  they  were  wont  to  be.  "And  now 
I  do  hope  that  you  won't  vex  yourself ;  the  young  man  is  indeed — 
and,  I  do  assure  you,  I  always  thought  so — a  very  charming 
gentleman,  there's  no  denying  it.  But  what  can  we  do?  You 
see  what  they  all  say  of  him,  and  it  really  was — we  must  allow 
that — very  improper  in  him  to  come  without  being  asked. 
Moreover,  my  dearest  child,  it  is  very  wrong,  very  wrong, 
indeed,  to  love  any  one,  and  not  know  who  he  is;  and — and — 
but  don't  cry,  my  dear  love,  don't  cry  so;  all  will  be  very  well, 
I  am  sure — quite  sure!" 

As  he  said  this,  the  kind  old  man  drew  his  daughter  nearer 
him,  and  feeling  his  hand  hurt  by  something  she  wore 
unseen  which  pressed  against  it,  he  inquired  with  some 
suspicion  that  the  love  might  have  proceeded  to  love-gifts, 
what  it  was. 

"It  is  my  mother's  picture,"  said  Lucy,  simply,  and  putting 
it  aside. 

The  old  squire  had  loved  his  wife  tenderly,  and  when  Lucy 
made  this  reply,  all  the  fond  and  warm  recollections  of  his 
youth  rushed  upon  him;  he  thought,  too,  how  earnestly  on  her 
death-bed  that  wife  had  recommended  to  his  vigilant  care  their 
only  child  now  weeping  on  his  bosom ;  he  remembered  how, 
dwelling  on  that  which  to  all  women  seems  the  grand  epoch  of 
life,  she  had  said,  "Never  let  her  affections  be  trifled  with, — 
never  be  persuaded  by  your  ambitious  brother  to  make  her 
marry  where  she  loves  not,  or  to  oppose  her,  without  strong 
reason,  where  she  does:  though  she  be  but  a  child  now,  I  know 
enough  of  her  to  feel  convinced  that  if  ever  she  love,  she  will 
love  too  well  for  her  own  happiness,  even  with  all  things  in  her 
favor."  These  words,  these  recollections,  joined  to  the  re- 
membrance of  the  cold-hearted  scheme  of  William  Brandon, 


£42  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

which  he  had  allowed. himself  to  favor,  and  of  his  own  supine- 
ness  towards  Lucy's  growing  love  for  Clifford,  till  resistance 
became  at  once  necessary  and  too  late,  all  smote  him  with  a 
remorseful  sorrow,  and  fairly  sobbing  himself,  he  said,  "Thy 
mother,  child!  ah,  would  that  she  were  living,  she  would  never 
have  neglected  thee  as  I  have  done!" 

The  squire's  self-reproach  made  Lucy's  tears  cease  on  the 
instant,  and,  as  she  covered  her  father's  hand  with  kisses,  she 
replied  only  by  vehement  accusations  against  herself,  and 
praises  of  his  too  great  fatherly  fondness  and  affection.  This 
little  burst,  on  both  sides,  of  honest  and  simple-hearted  love, 
ended  in  a  silence  full  of  tender  and  mingled  thoughts;  and  as 
Lucy  still  clung  to  the  breast  of  the  old  man,  uncouth  as  he 
was  in  temper,  below  even  mediocrity  in  intellect,  and  alto- 
gether the  last  person  in  age,  or  mind,  or  habit,  that  seemed 
fit  for  a  confidant  in  the  love  of  a  young  and  enthusiastic  girl, 
she  felt  the  old  homely  truth,  that  under  all  disadvantages  there 
are,  in  this  hollow  world,  few  in  whom  trust  can  be  so  safely 
reposed,  few  who  so  delicately  and  subtilely  respect  the  confi- 
dence, as  those  from  whom  we  spring. 

The  father  and  daughter  had  been  silent  for  some  minutes, 
and  the  former  was  about  to  speak,  when  the  carriage  suddenly 
stopped.  The  squire  heard  a  rough  voice  at  the  horse's  heads ; 
he  looked  forth  from  the  window  to  see,  through  the  mist  of 
the  night,  what  could  possibly  be  the  matter,  and  he  encoun- 
tered in  this  action,  just  one  inch  from  his  forehead,  the  pro- 
truded and  shining  barrel  of  a  horse-pistol.  We  may  believe, 
without  a  reflection  on  his  courage,  that  Mr.  Brandon  threw 
himself  back  into  his  carriage  with  all  possible  despatch;  and 
at  the  same  moment  the  door  was  opened,  and  a  voice  said, 
not  in  a  threatening,  but  a  smooth  accent,  "Ladies  and  gentle- 
men, I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you,  but  want  is  imperious :  oblige 
me  with  your  money,  your  watches,  your  rings,  and  any  other 
little  commodities  of  a  similar  nature!" 

So  delicate  a  request  the  squire  had  not  the  heart  to  resist, 
the  more  especially  as  he  knew  himself  without  any  weapon  of 
defence;  accordingly  he  drew  out  a  purse,  not  very  full  it  must 
be  owned,  together  with  an  immense  silver  hunting- watch, 
with  a  piece  of  black  riband  attached  to  it:  "There,  sir," 
said  he,  with  a  groan,  "don't  frighten  the  young  lady." 

The  gentle  applicant,  who  indeed  was  no  other  than  the 
specious  Augustus  Tomlinson,  slid  the  purse  into  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  after  feeling  its  contents  with  a  rapid  and  scientific 
finger.  "Your  watch,  sir,"  quoth  he,  and  as  he  spoke  he 


PAtlL   CLIFFORD.  243 

thrust  it  carelessly  into  his  coat-pocket,  as  a  school-boy  would 
thrust  a  peg-top,  "is  heavy;  but  trusting  to  experience,  since 
an  accurate  survey  is  denied  me,  I  fear  it  is  more  valuable 
from  its  weight  than  its  workmanship;  however,  I  will  not 
wound  your  vanity  by  affecting  to  be  fastidious.  But  surely 
the  young  lady,  as  you  call  her — (for  I  pay  you  the  compli- 
ment of  believing  your  word  as  to  her  age,  inasmuch  as  the 
night  is  too  dark  to  allow  me  the  happiness  of  a  personal  in- 
spection),— the  young  lady  has  surely  some  little  trinket  she 
can  dispense  with:  'Beauty  when  unadorned,'  you  know,  etc." 

Lucy,  who,  though  greatly  frightened,  lost  neither  her  senses 
nor  her  presence  of  mind,  only  answered  by  drawing  forth  a 
little  silk  purse,  that  contained  still  less  than  the  leathern  con- 
venience of  the  squire ;  to  this  she  added  a  gold  chain ;  and 
Tomlinson,  taking  them  with  an  affectionate  squeeze  of  the 
hand,  and  a  polite  apology,  was  about  to  withdraw,  when  his 
sagacious  eyes  were  suddenly  stricken  by  the  gleam  of  jewels. 
The  fact  was,  that  in  altering  the  position  of  her  mother's  pic- 
ture, which  had  been  set  in  the  few  hereditary  diamonds  pos- 
sessed by  the  Lord  of  Warlock,  Lucy  had  allowed  it  to  hang  on 
the  outside  of  her  dress,  and  bending  forward  to  give  the  rob- 
ber her  other  possessions,  the  diamonds  at  once  came  in  full 
sight,  and  gleamed  the  more  invitingly  from  the  darkness  of 
the  night. 

"Ah,  madam!"  said  Tomlinson,  stretching  forth  his  hand, 
"you  would  play  me  false,  would  you?  Treachery  should  never 
go  unpunished.  Favor  me  instantly  with  the  little  ornament 
round  your  neck!" 

"I  cannot — I  cannot!"  said  Lucy,  grasping  her  treasure  with 
both  her  hands, — "it  is  my  mother's  picture  and  my  mother  is 
dead!" 

"The  wants  of  others,  madam,"  returned  Tomlinson,  who 
could  not  for  the  life  of  him  rob  immorally,  "are  ever  more 
worthy  your  attention  than  family  prejudices.  Seriously,  give 
it,  and  that  instantly;  we  are  in  a  hurry,  and  your  horses  are 
plunging  like  devils:  they  will  break  your  carriage  in  an 
instant — despatch ! ' ' 

The  squire  was  a  brave  man  on  the  whole,  though  no  hero, 
and  the  nerves  of  an  old  foxhunter  soon  recover  from  a  little 
alarm.  The  picture  of  his  buried  wife  was  yet  more  inestima- 
ble to  him  than  it  was  to  Lucy,  and  at  this  new  demand  his 
spirit  was  roused  within  him. 

He  clenched  his  fists,  and  advancing  himself,  as  it  were,  on 
his  seat,  he  cried  in  a  loud  voice : 


244  PAUL  CLIFFORD. 

"Begone,  fellow! — I  have  given  you — for  my  own  part  I 
think  so — too  much  already;  and  by  G — d,  you  shall  not  have 
the  picture!" 

"Don't  force  me  to  use  violence!"  said  Augustus,  and  put- 
ting one  foot  on  the  carriage-step,  he  brought  his  pistol  within 
a  few  inches  of  Lucy's  breast,  rightly  judging,  perhaps,  that  the 
show  of  danger  to  her  would  be  the  best  method  to  intimidate  the 
squire.  At  that  instant  the  valorous  moralist  found  himself 
suddenly  seized  with  a  powerful  gripe  on  the  shoulder,  and  a 
low  voice,  trembling  with  passion,  hissed  in  his  ear.  Whatever 
might  be  the  words  that  startled  his  organs,  they  operated  as 
an  instantaneous  charm ;  and  to  their  astonishment,  the  squire 
and  Lucy  beheld  their  assailant  abruptly  withdraw.  The  door 
of  the  carriage  was  clapped  to,  and  scarcely  two  minutes  had 
elapsed  before,  the  robber  having  remounted,  his  comrade — 
(hitherto  stationed  at  the  horses'  heads) — set  spurs  to  his  own 
steed,  and  the  welcome  sound  of  receding  hoofs  smote  upon 
the  bewildered  ears  of  the  father  and  daughter. 

The  door  of  the  carriage  was  again  opened,  and  a  voice, 
which  made  Lucy  paler  than  the  preceding  terror,  said : 

"I  fear,  Mr.  Brandon,  the  robbers  have  frightened  your 
daughter.  There  is  now,  however,  nothing  to  fear — the 
ruffians  are  gone." 

"God  bless  me!"  said  the  squire:  "why,  is  that  Captain 
Clifford?" 

"It  is!  and  he  conceives  himself  too  fortunate  to  have  been 
of  the  smallest  service  to  Mr.  and  Miss  Brandon." 

On  having  convinced  himself  that  it  was  indeed  to  Mr. 
Clifford  that  he  owed  his  safety,  as  well  as  that  of  his  daughter, 
whom  he  believed  to  have  been  in  a  far  more  imminent  peril 
than  she  really  was — (for  to  tell  thee  the  truth,  reader,  the 
pistol  of  Tomlinson  was  rather  calculated  for  show  than  use, 
having  a  peculiarly  long  bright  barrel  with  nothing  in  it) — the 
squire  was  utterly  at  a  loss  how  to  express  his  gratitude;  and 
when  he  turned  to  Lucy  to  beg  she  would  herself  thank  their 
gallant  deliverer,  he  found  that,  overpowered  with  various 
emotions,  she  had,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  fainted  away. 

"Good  Heavens!"  cried  the  alarmed  father,  "she  is  dead, — 
my  Lucy — my  Lucy — they  have  killed  her!" 

To  open  the  door  nearest  to  Lucy,  to  bear  her  from  the  car- 
riage in  his  arms,  was  to  Clifford  the  work  of  an  instant ;  utterly 
unconscious  of  the  presence  of  any  one  else — unconscious  even 
of  what  he  did,  he  poured  forth  a  thousand  wild,  passionate,  yet 
half  audible  expressions;  and  as  he  bore  her  to  a  bank  by  the 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  245 

roadside,  and,  seating  himself,  supported  her  against  his  bosom, 
it  would  be  difficult,  perhaps,  to  say,  whether  something  of 
delight — of  burning  and  thrilling  delight— was  not  mingled 
with  his  anxiety  and  terror.  He  chafed  her  small  hands  in  his 
own — his  breath,  all  trembling  and  warm,  glowed  upon  her 
cheek,  and  once,  and  but  once,  his  lips  drew  nearer,  and 
breathing  aside  the  dishevelled  richness  of  her  tresses,  clung  in 
a  long  and  silent  kiss  to  her  own. 

Meanwhile,  by  the  help;  of  his  footman,  who  had  somewhat 
recovered  his  astonished  senses,  the  squire  descended  from  his 
carriage,  and  approached  with  faltering  steps  the  place  where 
his  daughter  reclined.  At  the  instant  that  he  took  her  hand,  Lucy 
began  to  revive,  and  the  first  action,  in  the  bewildered  uncon- 
sciousness of  awaking,  was  to  throw  her  arm  around  the  neck 
of  her  supporter. 

Could  all  the  hours  and  realities  of  hope,  joy,  pleasure,  in 
Clifford's  previous  life  have  been  melted  down  and  concentrated 
into  a  single  emotion,  that  emotion  would  have  been  but  tame 
to  the  rapture  of  Lucy's  momentary  and  innocent  caress !  And 
at  a  later,  yet  no  distant,  period,  when  in  the  felon's  cell  the 
grim  visage  of  Death  scowled  upon  him,  it  may  be  questioned 
whether  his  thoughts  dwelt  not  far  more  often  on  the  remem- 
brance of  that  delightful  moment  than  on  the  bitterness  and 
ignominy  of  an  approaching  doom! 

"She  breathes — she  moves — she  wakes!"  cried  the  father; 
and  Lucy,  attempting  to  rise,  and  recognizing  the  squire's 
voice,  said  faintly,  "Thank  God,  my  dear  father,  you  are  not 
hurt!  And  are  they  really  gone? — and  where — where  are  we  ?  " 

The  squire,  relieving  Clifford  of  his  charge,  folded  his  child 
in  his  arms,  while  in  his  own  elucidatory  manner  he  informed 
her  where  she  was,  and  with  whom.  The  lovers  stood  face  to 
face  to  each  other,  but  what  delicious  blushes  did  the  night, 
which  concealed  all  but  the  outline  of  their  forms,  hide  from 
the  eyes  of  Clifford! 

The  honest  and  kind  heart  of  Mr.  Brandon  was  glad  of  a 
release  to  the  indulgent  sentiments  it  had  always  cherished 
towards  the  suspected  and  maligned  Clifford,  and  turning  now 
from  Lucy,  it  fairly  poured  itself  forth  upon  her  deliverer.  He 
grasped  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  and  insisted  upon  his  accom- 
panying them  to  Bath  in  the  carriage,  and  allowing  the  foot- 
man to  ride  his  horse.  This  offer  was  still  pending,  when  the 
footman,  who  had  been  to  see  after  the  health  and  comfort  of 
his  fellow-servant,  came  to  inform  the  party  in  a  dolorous  accent 
of  something  which,  in  the  confusion  and  darkness  of  the 


$46  PAtfL    CLIFFORD. 

night,  they  had  not  yet  learned, — namely,  that  the  horses  and 
the  coachman  were — gone! 

"Gone!"  said  the  squire — "gone! — why  the  villains  can't — 
(for  my  part,  I  never  believe,  though  I  have  heard  such  won- 
ders of,  these  sleights  of  hand) — have  bagged  them!" 

Here  a  low  groan  was  audible,  and  the  footman,  sympathet- 
ically guided  to  the  spot  whence  it  emanated,  found  the  huge 
body  of  the  coachman  safely  deposited,  with  its  face  downward, 
in  the  middle  of  the  kennel.  After  this  worthy  had  been  lifted  to 
his  legs,  and  had  shaken  himself  into  intelligence,  it  was  found 
that  when  the  robbers  had  detained  the  horses,  the  coachman, 
who  required  very  little  to  conquer  his  more  bellicose  faculties, 
had — (he  himself  said,  by  a  violent  blow  from  the  ruffian, 
though,  perhaps,  the  cause  lay  nearer  home) — quitted  the 
coach-box  for  the  kennel,  the  horses  grew  frightened,  and  after 
plunging  and  rearing  till  he  cared  no  longer  to  occupy  himself 
with  their  arrest,  the  highwayman  had  very  quietly  cut  the 
traces,  and  by  the  time  present  it  was  not  impossible  that  the 
horses  were  almost  at  the  door  of  their  stables  at  Bath. 

The  footman  who  had  apprised  the  squire  of  this  misfortune 
was,  unlike  most  news-tellers,  the  first  to  offer  consolation. 

"There  be  an  excellent  public,"  quoth  he,  "about  a  half  a 
mile  on,  where  your  honor  could  get  horses ;  or,  mayhap,  if 
Miss  Lucy,  poor  heart,  be  faint,  you  may  like  to  stop  for  the 
night." 

Though  a  walk  of  half  a  mile  in  a  dark  night,  and  under 
other  circumstances,  would  not  have  seemed  a  grateful  propo- 
sition, yet,  at  present,  when  the  squire's  imagination  had  only 
pictured  to  him  the  alternatives  of  passing  the  night  in  the 
carriage,  or  of  crawling  on  foot  to  Bath,  it  seemed  but  a  very 
insignificant  hardship.  And  tucking  his  daughter's  arm  under 
his  own,  while  in  a  kind  voice  he  told  Clifford  "to  support  her 
on  the  other  side,"  the  squire  ordered  the  footman  to  lead  the 
way  with  Clifford's  horse,  and  the  coachman  to  follow  or  be 
d — d,  whichever  he  pleased. 

In  silence  Clifford  offered  his  arm  to  Lucy,  and  silently  she 
accepted  the  courtesy.  The  squire  was  the  only  talker,  and 
the  theme  he  chose  was  not  ungrateful  to  Lucy,  for  it  was  the 
praise  of  her  lover.  But  Clifford  scarcely  listened,  for  a  thou- 
sand thoughts  and  feelings  contested  within  him ;  and  the  light 
touch  of  Lucy's  hand  upon  his  arm  would  alone  have  been 
sufficient  to  distract  and  confuse  his«attention.  The  darkness 
of  the  night,  the  late  excitement,  the  stolen  kiss  that  still 
glowed  upon  his  lips,  the  remembrance  of  Lucy's  flattering  agi- 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  247 

tation  in  the  scene  with  her  at  Lord  Mauleverer's,  the  yet 
warmer  one  of  that  unconscious  embrace,  which  still  tingled 
through  every  nerve  of  his  frame,  all  conspired  with  the  deli- 
cious emotion  which  he  now  experienced  at  her  presence  and  her 
contact  to  intoxicate  and  inflame  him.  Oh,  those  burning  mo- 
ments in  love,  when  romance  has  just  mellowed  into  passion, 
and  without  losing  anything  of  its  luxurious  vagueness,  mingles 
the  enthusiasm  of  its  dreams  with  the  ardent  desires  of  reality 
and  earth !  That  is  the  exact  time,  when  love  has  reached  its 
highest  point, — when  all  feelings,  all  thoughts,  the  whole  soul, 
and  the  whole  mind,  are  seized  and  engrossed, — when  every 
difficulty  weighed  in  the  opposite  scale  seems  lighter  than 
dust, — when  to  renounce  the  object  beloved  is  the  most  deadly 
and  lasting  sacrifice, — and  when  in  so  many  breasts,  where 
honor,  conscience,  virtue  are  far  stronger  than  we  can  believe 
them  ever  to  have  been  in  a  criminal  like  Clifford,  honor,  con- 
science, virtue  have  perished  at  once  and  suddenly  into  ashes 
before  that  mighty  and  irresistible  fire. 

The  servant,  who  had  had  previous  opportunities  of  ascer- 
taining the  topography  of  the  "public"  of  which  he  spake,  and 
who  was  perhaps  tolerably  reconciled  to  his  late  terror  in  the 
anticipation  of  renewing  his  intimacy  with  "the  spirits  of  the 
past,"  now  directed  the  attention  of  our  travellers  to  a  small 
inn  just  before  them.  Mine  host  had  not  yet  retired  to  repose, 
and  it  was  not  necessary  to  knock  twice  before  the  door  was 
opened. 

A  bright  fire,  an  officious  landlady,  a  commiserate  landlord, 
a  warm  potation,  and  the  promise  of  excellent  beds,  all  ap- 
peared to  our  squire  to  make  ample  amends  for  the  intelligence 
that  the  inn  was  not  licensed  to  let  post-horses ;  and  mine  host 
having  promised  forthwith  to  send  two  stout  fellows,  a  rope, 
and  a  cart-horse,  to  bring  the  carriage  under  shelter  (for  the 
squire  valued  the  vehicle  because  it  was  twenty  years  old),  and, 
moreover,  to  have  the  harness  repaired,  and  the  horses  ready 
by  an  early  hour  the  next  day,  the  good  humor  of  Mr.  Brandon 
rose  into  positive  hilarity.  Lucy  retired  under  the  auspices  of 
the  landlady  to  bed,  and  the  squire  having  drunk  a  bowl  of 
bishop,  and  discovered  a  thousand  new  virtues  in  Clifford, 
especially  that  of  never  interrupting  a  good  story,  clapped  the 
captain  on  the  shoulder,  and  making  him  promise  not  to  leave 
the  inn  till  he  had  seen  him  again,  withdrew  also  to  the  repose 
of  his  pillow.  Clifford  remained  below,  gazing  abstractedly  on 
the  fire  for  some  time  afterwards ;  nor  was  it  till  the  drowsy 
chambermaid  had  thrice  informed  him  of  the  prepared  comforts 


248  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

of  his  bed,  that  he  adjourned  to  his  chamber.  Even  then  it 
seems  that  sleep  did  not  visit  his  eyelids,  for  a  wealthy  grazier, 
who  lay  in  the  room  below,  complained  bitterly  the  next  morn- 
ing of  some  person  walking  overhead  "in  all  manner  of  strides, 
just  for  all  the  world  like  a  happarition  in  boots." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Viola.  — And  dost  thou  love  me  ? 

Lysander.     .     .     .     Love  thee,  Viola? 
Do  I  not  fly  tV>ee  when  my  being  drinks 
Light  from  thine  eyes? — that  flight  is  all  my  answer  ! 

The  Bride,  Act  ii.,  Scene  I. 

THE  curtain  meditations  of  the  squire  had  not  been  without 
the  produce  of  a  resolve.  His  warm  heart  at  once  reopened  to 
the  liking  he  had  formerly  conceived  for  Clifford ;  he  longed 
for  an  opportunity  to  atone  for  his  past  unkindness,  and  to  tes- 
tify his  present  gratitude ;  moreover,  he  felt  at  once  indignant 
at,  and  ashamed  of,  his  late  conduct  in  joining  the  popular 
and,  as  he  now  fully  believed,  the  causeless  prepossession 
against  his  young  friend,  and  before  a  more  present  and  a 
stronger  sentiment  his  habitual  deference  for  his  brother's  coun- 
sels faded  easily  away.  Coupled  with  these  favorable  feelings 
towards  Clifford  were  his  sagacious  suspicious,  or  rather  cer- 
tainty, of  Lucy's  attachment  to  her  handsome  deliverer;  and 
he  had  at  least  sufficient  penetration  to  perceive  that  she  was 
not  likely  to  love  him  the  less  for  the  night's  adventure.  To 
all  this  was  added  the  tender  recollection  of  his  wife's  parting 
words ;  and  the  tears  and  tell-tale  agitation  of  Lucy  in  the  car- 
riage were  sufficient  to  his  simple  mind,  which  knew  not  how 
lightly  maidens'  tears  are  shed  and  dried,  to  confirm  the  pre- 
diction of  the  dear  deceased.  Nor  were  the  squire's  more  gen- 
erous and  kindly  feelings  utterly  unmixed  with  selfish  consid- 
erations. Proud,  but  not  the  least  ambitious,  he  was  always 
more  ready  to  confer  an  honor  than  receive  one,  and  at  heart 
he  was  secretly  glad  at  the  notion  of  exchanging,  as  a  son-in- 
law,  the  polished  and  unfamiliar  Mauleverer  for  the  agreeable 
and  social  Clifford.  Such,  in  "admired  disorder,"  were  the 
thoughts  which  rolled  through  the  teeming  brain  of  Joseph 
Brandon,  and  before  he  had  turned  on  his  left  side,  which  he 
always  did  preparatory  to  surrendering  himself  to  slumber,  the 


PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

squire   had  fully   come  to  a  determination  most  fatal  to  the 
schemes  of  the  lawyer  and  the  hopes  of  the  Earl. 
The  next  morning,  as  Lucy  was  knitting 

"  The  loose  train  of  her  amber-drooping  hair" 

before  the  little  mirror  of  her  chamber,  which  even  through 
its  dimmed  and  darkened  glass  gave  back  a  face  which  might 
have  shamed  a  Grecian  vision  of  Aurora,  a  gentle  tap  at  her 
door  announced  her  father.  There  was  in  his  rosy  and  comely 
countenance  that  expression  generally  characteristic  of  a  man 
pleased  with  himself,  and  persuaded  that  he  is  about  to  give 
pleasure. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  the  squire,  fondly  stroking  down  the 
luxuriance  of  his  Lucy's  hair,  and  kissing  her  darnask  cheek, 
"I  am  come  to  have  some  little  conversation  with  you:  sit 
down  now,  and  (for  my  part,  I  love  to  talk  at  my  ease;  and, 
by  the  by,  shut  the  window,  my  love,  it  is  an  easterly  wind) 
I  wish  that  we  may  come  to  a  clear  and  distinct  understanding. 
Hem ! — give  me  your  hand,  my  child, — I  think  on  these  mat- 
ters one  can  scarcely  speak  too  precisely  and  to  the  purpose; 
although  I  am  well  aware — (for,  for  my  own  part,  I  always  wish 
to  act  to  every  one,  to  you  especially,  my  dearest  child,  with 
the  greatest  consideration) — that  we  must  go  to  work  with  as 
much  delicacy  as  conciseness.  You  know  this  Captain  Clif- 
ford,— 'tis  a  brave  youth,  is  it  not? — well — nay,  never  blush  so 
deeply,  there  is  nothing  (for  in  these  matters  one  can't  have 
all  one's  wishes, — one  can't  have  everything)  to  be  ashamed 
of!  Tell  me  now,  child,  dost  think  he  is  in  love  with  thee?" 

If  Lucy  did  not  immediately  answer  by  words,  her  pretty 
lips  moved  as  if  she  could  readily  reply ;  and,  finally,  they  set- 
tled into  so  sweet  and  so  assured  a  smile,  that  the  squire,  fond 
as  he  was  of  "precise"  information,  was  in  want  of  no  fuller 
answer  to  his  question. 

"Ay,  ay,  young  lady,"  said  he,  looking  at  her  with  all  a 
father's  affection,  "I  see  how  it  is.  And,  come  now, — what  do 
you  turn  away  for?  Dost  think  if,  as  I  believe  though  there 
are  envious  persons  in  the  world,  as  there  always  are  when  a 
man's  handsome,  or  clever,  or  brave;  though,  by  the  way, 
which  is  a  very  droll  thing  in  my  eyes,  they  don't  envy,  at  least 
not  ill-naturedly,  a  man  for  being  a  lord,  or  rich ;  but  quite, 
on  the  contrary,  rank  and  money  seem  to  make  them  think  one 
has  all  the  cardinal  virtues.  Humph! — If,  I  say,  this  Mr. 
Clifford  should  turn  out  to  be  a  gentleman  of  family, — for  you 
know  that  is  essential,  since  the  Brandons  have,  as  my  brother 


250  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

has  probably  told  you,  been  a  great  race  many  centuries  ago,— 
dost  think,  my  child,  that  thou  couldst  give  up  (the  cat  is  out 
of  the  bag)  this  old  lord,  and  marry  a  simple  gentleman?" 

The  hand  which  the  squire  had  held  was  now  with  an  arch 
tenderness  applied  to  his  mouth,  and  when  he  again  seized  it 
Lucy  hid  her  glowing  face  in  his  bosom ;  and  it  was  only  by  a 
whisper,  as  if  the  very  air  was  garrulous,  that  he  could  draw 
forth  (for  now  he  insisted  on  a  verbal  reply)  her  happy  answer. 

We  are  not  afraid  that  our  reader  will  blame  us  for  not  de- 
tailing the  rest  of  the  interview  between  the  father  and  daugh- 
ter: it  did  not  last  above  an  hour  longer;  for  the  squire  de- 
clared that,  for  his  own  part,  he  hated  more  words  than  were 
necessary.  Mr.  Brandon  was  the  first  to  descend  to  the  breakfast, 
muttering  as  he  descended  the  stairs,  "Well,  now,  hang  me  if 
I  am  not  glad  that's  off  (for  I  do  not  like  to  think  much  of  so 
silly  a  matter)  my  mind.  And  as  for  my  brother,  I  shant  tell  him 
till  it's  all  over  and  settled.  And  if  he  is  angry,  he  and  the  old 
lord  may,  though  I  don't  mean  to  be  unbrotherly,  go  to  the 
devil  together!" 

When  the  three  were  assembled  at  the  breakfast-table,  there 
could  not,  perhaps,  have  been  found  anywhere  a  stronger  con- 
trast than  that  which  the  radiant  face  of  Lucy  bore  to  the  hag- 
gard and  worn  expression  that  disfigured  the  handsome  fea- 
tures of  her  lover.  So  marked  was  the  change  that  one  night 
seemed  to  have  wrought  upon  Clifford,  that  even  the  squire  was 
startled  and  alarmed  at  it.  But  Lucy,  whose  innocent  vanity 
pleased  itself  with  accounting  for  the  alteration,  consoled  her- 
self with  the  hope  of  soon  witnessing  a  very  different  expression 
on  the  countenance  of  her  lover ;  and  though  she  was  silent, 
and  her  happiness  lay  quiet  and  deep  within  her,  yet  in  her 
eyes  and  lip  there  was  that  which  seemed  to  Clifford  an  insult 
to  his  own  misery,  and  stung  him  to  the  heart.  However,  he 
exerted  himself  to  meet  the  conversation  of  the  squire,  and  to 
mask  as  well  as  he  was  able  the  evidence  of  the  conflict  which 
still  raged  within  him. 

The  morning  was  wet  and  gloomy ;  it  was  that  drizzling  and 
misty  rain  which  is  so  especially  nutritious  to  the  growth  of 
blue  devils,  and  the  jolly  squire  failed  not  to  rally  his  young 
friend  upon  his  feminine  susceptibility  to  the  influences  of  the 
weather.  Clifford  replied  jestingly,  and  the  jest,  if  bad,  was 
good  enough  to  content  the  railer.  In  this  facetious  manner 
passed  the  time,  till  Lucy,  at  the  request  of  her  father,  left  the 
room  to  prepare  for  their  return  home. 

Drawing  his  chair  near  to  Clifford's,  the  squire  then  com- 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  251 

menced  in  real  and  affectionate  earnest  his  operations — these 
he  had  already  planned — in  the  following  order:  they  were, 
first  to  inquire  into,  and  to  learn,  Clifford's  rank,  family,  and 
-prospects ;  secondly,  having  ascertained  the  proprieties  of  the 
outer  man,  they  were  to  examine  the  state  of  the  inner  one ; 
and,  thirdly,  should  our  skilful  inquirer  find  his  guesses  at 
Clifford's  affection  for  Lucy  confirmed,  they  were  to  expel  the 
modest  fear  of  a  repulse,  which  the  squire  allowed  was  natural 
enough,  and  to  lead  the  object  of  the  inquiry  to  a  knowledge 
of  the  happiness  that,  Lucy  consenting,  might  be  in  store  for 
him.  While,  with  his  wonted  ingenuity,  the  squire  was  pursu- 
ing his  benevolent  designs,  Lucy  remained  in  her  own  room,  in 
such  meditation  and  such  dreams  as  were  natural  to  a  heart  so 
sanguine  and  enthusiastic. 

She  had  been  more  than  half  an  hour  alone,  when  the  cham- 
bermaid of  the  hostelry  knocked  at  her  door,  and  delivered  a 
message  from  the  sqoire,  begging  her  to  come  down  to  him  in 
the  parlor.  With  a  heart  that  beat  so  violently  it  almost  seemed 
to  wear  away  its  very  life,  Lucy  slowly,  and  with  tremulous 
steps,  descended  to  the  parlor.  On  opening  the  door  she  saw 
Clifford  standing  in  the  recess  of  the  window:  his  face  was 
partly  turned  from  her,  and  his  eyes  downcast.  The  good  old 
squire  sat  in  an  elbow-chair,  and  a  sort  of  puzzled  and  half- 
satisfied  complacency  gave  expression  to  his  features. 

"Come  hither,  child,"  said  he,  clearing  his  throat;  "Captain 
Clifford — ahem! — has  done  you  the  honor — to — and  I  dare 
say  you  will  be  very  much  surprised — not  that,  for  my  own 
part,  I  think  there  is  much  to  wonder  at  in  it,  but  such  may  be 
my  partial  opinion  (and  /'/  is  certainly  very  natural  in  me) — to 
make  you  a  declaration  of  love.  He  declares,  moreover,  that 
he  is  the  most  miserable  of  men,  and  that  he  would  die  sooner 
than  have  the  presumption  to  hope.  Therefore  you  see,  my 
love,  I  have  sent  for  you,  to  give  him  permission  to  destroy 
himself  in  any  way  he  pleases ;  and  I  leave  him  to  show  cause 
why  (it  is  a  fate  that  sooner  or  later  happens  to  all  his  fellow- 
men)  sentence  of  death  should  not  be  passed  against  him." 
Having  delivered  this  speech  with  more  propriety  of  word 
than  usually  fell  to  his  share,  the  squire  rose  hastily  and  hob- 
bled out  of  the  room. 

Lucy  sank  into  the  chair  her  father  had  quitted,  and  Clifford, 
approaching  towards  her,  said,  in  a  hoarse  and  low  voice : 

"Your  father,  Miss  Brandon,  says  rightly,  that  I  would 
die  rather  than  lift  my  eyes  in  hope  to  you.  I  thought  yester- 
day that  I  had  seen  you  for  the  last  time ;  chance,  not  my  own 


2£3  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

folly  or  presumption,  has  brought  me  again  before  you;  and 
even  the  few  hours  I  have  passed  under  the  same  roof  with  you 
have  made  me  feel  as  if  my  love — my  madness — had  never 
reached  its  height  till  now.  Oh,  Lucy!"  continued  Clifford, 
in  a  more  impassioned  tone,  and,  as  if  by  a  sudden  and  irresis- 
tible impulse,  throwing  himself  at  her  feet;  "if  I  could  hope 
to  merit  you — if  I  could  hope  to  raise  myself — if  I  could — but 
no — no — no!  I  am  cut  off  from  all  hope,  and  forever!" 

There  was  so  deep,  so  bitter,  so  heartfelt  an  anguish  and 
remorse  in  the  voice  with  which  these  last  words  were  spoken, 
that  Lucy,  hurried  off  her  guard,  and  forgetting  everything  in 
wondering  sympathy  and  compassion,  answered,  extending  her 
hand  towards  Clifford,  who,  still  kneeling,  seized  and  covered 
it  with  kisses  of  fire : 

"Do  not  speak  thus,  Mr.  Clifford;  do  not  accuse  yourself  of 
what  I  am  sure,  quite  sure,  you  cannot  deserve.  Perhaps, — 
forgive  me, — your  birth,  your  fortune,  are  beneath  your  merits ; 
and  you  have  penetrated  into  my  father's  weakness  on  the 
former  point ;  or  perhaps,  you  yourself  have  not  avoided  all 
the  errors  into  which  men  are  hurried ;  perhaps  you  have  been 
imprudent  or  thoughtless ;  perhaps  you  have  (fashion  is  conta- 
gious) played  beyond  your  means,  or  incurred  debts;  these 
are  faults,  it  is  true,  to  be  regretted,  yet  not  surely  irre- 
parable. ' ' 

For  that  instant  can  it  be  wondered  that  all  Clifford's  resolu- 
tion and  self-denial  deserted  him,  and  lifting  his  eyes,  radiant 
with  joy  and  gratitude,  to  the  face  which  bent  in  benevolent 
innocence  towards  him,  he  exclaimed,  "No,  Miss  Brandon! — 
no,  Lucy — dear,  angel  Lucy! — my  faults  are  less  venial  than 
these,  but  perhaps  they  are  no  less  the  consequence  of  circum- 
stances and  contagion ;  perhaps  it  may  not  be  too  late  to 
repair  them.  Would  you — you  indeed,  deign  to  be  my  guar- 
dian, I  might  not  despair  of  being  saved!" 

"If,"  said  Lucy,  blushing  deeply,  and  looking  down,  while 
she  spoke  quick  and  eagerly,  as  if  to  avoid  humbling  him  by 
her  offer, — "if,  Mr.  Clifford,  the  want  of  wealth  has  in  any  way 
occasioned  you  uneasiness,  or — or  error,  do  believe  me — I 
mean  us — so  much  your  friends  as  not  for  an  instant  to  scru- 
ple in  relieving  us  of  some  little  portion  of  our  last  night's  debt 
to  you." 

"Dear,  noble  girl!"  said  Clifford,  while  there  writhed  upon 
his  lips  one  of  those  smiles  of  powerful  sarcasm  that  sometimes 
distorted  his  features,  and  thrillingly  impressed  upon  Lucy  a 
resemblance  to  one  very  different  in  reputation  and  character 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  2$3 

to  her  lover, — "Do  not  attribute  my  misfortunes  to  so  petty  a 
source ;  it  is  not  money  that  I  shall  want  while  I  live,  though 
I  shall  to  my  last  breath  remember  this  delicacy  in  you,  and 
compare  it  with  certain  base  remembrances  in  my  own  mind. 
Yes!  all  past  thoughts  and  recollections  will  make  me  hereafter 
worship  you  even  more  than  I  do  now;  while  in  your  heart 
they  will — unless  Heaven  grant  me  one  prayer — make  you 
scorn  and  detest  me!" 

"For  mercy's  sake  do  not  speak  thus!"  said  Lucy,  gazing 
in  indistinct  alarm  upon  the  dark  and  working  features  of  her 
lover.  "Scorn,  detest  you!  impossible!  How  could  I,  after 
the  remembrance  of  last  night?" 

"Ay!  of  last  night,"  said  Clifford,  speaking  through  his 
ground  teeth;  "there  is  much  in  that  remembrance  to  live  long 
in  both  of  us:  but  you — you — fair  angel  (and  all  harshness 
and  irony  vanishing  at  once  from  his  voice  and  countenance, 
yielded  to  a  tender  and  deep  sadness,  mingled  with  a  respect 
that  bordered  on  reverence), — "you  never  could  have  dreamed 
of  more  than  pity  for  one  like  me, — you  never  could  have 
stooped  from  your  high  and  dazzling  purity  to  know  for  me 
one  such  thought  as  that  which  burns  at  my  heart  for  you, — 
you — yes,  withdraw  your  hand,  I  am  not  worthy  to  touch  it!" 
And  clasping  his  own  hands  before  his  face,  he  became  abruptly 
silent ;  but  his  emotions  were  ill  concealed,  and  Lucy  saw  the 
muscular  frame  before  her  heaved  and  convulsed  by  passions 
which  were  more  intense  and  rending  because  it  was  only  for  a 
few  moments  that  they  conquered  his  self-will  and  struggled 
into  vent. 

If  afterwards, — \>\\\.long  afterwards,  Lucy,  recalling  the  mys- 
tery of  his  words,  confessed  to  herself  that  they  betrayed  guilt, 
she  was  then  too  much  affected  to  think  of  anything  but  her 
love  and  his  emotion.  She  .bent  down,  and  with  a  girlish  and 
fond  self-abandonment,  which  none, could  have  resisted,  placed 
both  her  hands  on  his :  Clifford  started,  looked  up,  and  in  the 
next  moment  he  had  clasped  her  to  his  heart ;  and  while  the 
only  tears  he  had  shed  since  his  career  of  crime  fell  fast  and 
hot  upon  her  countenance,  he  kissed  her  forehead,  her  cheek, 
her  lips,  in  a  passionate  and  wild  transport.  His  voice  died 
within  him,  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak;  only  one 
thought,  even  in  that  seeming  forgetfulness  of  her  and  of  him- 
self, stirred  and  spoke  at  his  breast — flight.  The  more  he  felt 
he  loved, — the  more  tender  and  the  more  confiding  the  object 
of  his  love,  the  more  urgent  became  the  necessity  to  leave 
her.  All  other  duties  had  been  neglected,  but  he  loved  with  a 


254  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

real  love ;  and  love,  which  taught  him  one  duty,  bore  him  tri- 
umphantly through  its  bitter  ordeal. 

"You  will  hear  from  me  to-night,"  he  muttered;  "believe 
that  I  am  mad,  accursed,  criminal,  but  not  utterly  a  monster! 
I  ask  no  more  merciful  opinion!"  He  drew  himself  from  his 
perilous  position,  and  abruptly  departed. 

When  Clifford  reached  his  home,  he  found  his  worthy  coad- 
jutors waiting  for  him  with  alarm  and  terror  on  their  counte- 
nances. An  old  feat,  in  which  they  had  signalized  themselves, 
had  long  attracted  the  rigid  attention  of  the  police,  and  certain 
officers  had  now  been  seen  at  Bath,  and  certain  inquiries  had 
been  set  on  foot,  which  portended  no  good  to  the  safety  of  the 
sagacious  Tomlinson  and  the  valorous  Pepper.  They  came, 
humbly  and  penitentially  demanding  pardon  for  their  uncon- 
scious aggression  of  the  squire's  carriage,  and  entreating  their 
captain's  instant  advice.  If  Clifford  had  before  wavered  in  his 
disinterested  determination, — if  visions  of  Lucy,  of  happiness, 
and  reform,  had  floated  in  his  solitary  ride  too  frequently  and 
too  glowingly  before  his  eyes,  the  sight  of  these  men,  their 
conversation,  their  danger,  all  sufficed  to  restore  his  resolution. 
"Merciful  God!"  thought  he  "and  is  it  to  the  comrade  of  such 
lawless  villains,  to  a  man,  like  them,  exposed  hourly  to  the  most 
ignominious  of  deaths,  that  I  have  for  one  section  of  a  moment 
dreamed  of  consigning  the  innocent  and  generous  girl,  whose 
trust  or  love  is  the  only  crime  that  could  deprive  her  of  the 
most  brilliant  destiny?" 

Short  were  Clifford's  instructions  to  his  followers,  and  so 
much  do  we  do  mechanically,  that  they  were  delivered  with  his 
usual  forethought  and  precision.  "You  will  leave  the  town 
instantly;  go  not,  for  your  lives,  to  London,  or  to  rejoin  any 
of  your  comrades.  Ride  for  the  Red  Cave;  provisions  are 
stored  there,  and,  since  our  late  alteration  of  the  interior,  it 
will  afford  ample  room  to  conceal  your  horses.  On  the  night 
of  the  second  day  from  this  I  will  join  you.  But  be  sure  that 
you  enter  the  cave  at  night,  and  quit  it  upon  no  account  till  I 
come!" 

"Yes!"  said  he,  when  he  was  alone,  "I  will  join  you  again, 
but  only  to  quit  you.  One  more  offence  against  the  law,  or  at 
least  one  sum  wrested  from  the  swollen  hands  of  the  rich,  suffi- 
cient to  equip  me  for  a  foreign  army,  and  I  quit  the  country  of 
my  birth  and  my  crimes.  If  I  cannot  deserve  Lucy  Brandon, 
I  will  be  somewhat  less  unworthy.  Perhaps  (why  not?)  I  am 
young,  my  nerves  are  not  weak,  my  brain  is  not  dull ;  perhaps 
I  may  in  some  field  of  honorable  adventure  win  a  name,  that 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  255 

before  my  death-bed  I  may  not  blush  to  acknowledge  to 
her!" 

While  this  resolve  beat  high  within  Clifford's  breast,  Lucy 
sadly  and  in  silence  was  continuing  with  the  squire  her  short 
journey  to  Bath.  The  latter  was  very  inquisitive  to  know  why 
Clifford  had  gone,  and  what  he  had  avowed ;  and  Lucy,  scarcely 
able  to  answer,  threw  everything  on  the  promised  letter  of  the 
night. 

"I  am  glad,"  muttered  the  squire  to  her,  "that  he  is  going  to 
write;  for,  somehow  or  other,  though  I  questioned  him  very 
tightly,  he  slipped  through  my  cross-examination,  and  bursting 
out  at  once  as  to  his  love  for  you,  left  me  as  wise  about  himself 
as  I  was  before ;  no  doubt  (for  my  own  part  I  don't  see  what 
should  prevent  his  being  a  great  man  incog.}  this  letter  will 
explain  all!" 

Late  that  night  the  letter  came ;  Lucy,  fortunately  for  her, 
was  alone  in  her  own  room ;  she  opened  it,  and  read  as  follows: 

CLIFFORD'S  LETTER. 

"I  have  promised  to  write  to  you,  and  I  sit  down  to  perform 
that  promise.  At  this  moment  the  recollection  of  your  good- 
nesses, your  generous  consideration,  is  warm  within  me ;  and 
while  I  must  choose  calm  and  common  words  to  express  what  I 
ought  to  say,  my  heart  is  alternately  melted  and  torn  by 
thoughts  which  would  ask  words,  oh  how  different!  Your 
father  has  questioned  me  often  of  my  parentage  and  birth, — 
I  have  hitherto  eluded  his  interrogatories.  Learn  now  who  I 
am.  In  a  wretched  abode,  surrounded  by  the  inhabitants  of 
poverty  and  vice,  I  recall  my  earliest  recollections.  My  father 
is  unknown  to  me  as  to  every  one ;  my  mother,  to  you  I  dare 
not  mention  who  or  wkat  she  was, — she  died  in  my  infancy. 
Without  a  name,  but  not  without  an  inheritance  (my  inheritance 
was  large — it  was  infamy!)  I  was  thrown  upon  the  world:  I 
had  received  by  accident  some  education,  and  imbibed  some 
ideas,  not  natural  to  my  situation ;  since  then  I  have  played 
many  parts  in  life ;  books  and  men  I  have  not  so  neglected, 
but  that  I  have  gleaned  at  intervals  some  little  knowledge  from 
both.  Hence,  if  I  have  seemed  to  you  better  than  I  am,  you 
will  perceive  the  cause ;  circumstances  made  me  soon  my  own 
master ;  they  made  me  also  on?  whom  honest  men  do  not  love 
to  look  upon ;  my  deeds  have  been,  and  my  character  is,  of  a 
part  with  my  birth  and  my  fortunes.  I  came,  in  the  noble 
hope  to  raise  and  redeem  myself  by  gilding  my  fate  with  a 
wealthy  marriage,  to  this  city ;  I  saw  you,  whom  I  had  once 


2$6  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

before  met.  I  heard  you  were  rich.  Hate  me,  Miss  Brandon, 
hate  me! — I  resolved  to  make  your  ruin  the  cause  of  my  re- 
demption. Happily  for  you,  I  scarcely  knew  you  before  I 
loved  you ;  that  love  deepened, — it  caught  something  pure  and 
elevated  from  yourself.  My  resolution  forsook  me ;  even  now 
I  could  throw  myself  on  my  knees  and  thank  God  that  you — 
you,  dearest  and  noblest  of  human  beings — are  not  my  wife. 
Now,  is  my  conduct  clear  to  you  ? — If  not,  imagine  me  all  that 
is  villainous,  save  in  one  point,  where  you  are  concerned,  and 
not  a  shadow  of  mystery  will  remain.  Your  kind  father,  over- 
rating the  paltry  service  I  rendered  you,  would  have  consented 
to  submit  my  fate  to  your  decision.  I  blush  indignantly  for 
him — for  you — that  any  living  man  should  have  dreamed  of 
such  profanation  for  Miss  Brandon.  Yet  I  myself  was  carried 
away  and  intoxicated  by  so  sudden  and  so  soft  a  hope — even  I 
dared  to  lift  my  eyes  to  you,  to  press  you  to  this  guilty  heart, 
to  forget  myself,  and  to  dream  that  you  might  be  mine!  Can 
you  forgive  me  for  this  madness?  And  hereafter,  when  in  your 
lofty  and  glittering  sphere  of  wedded  happiness,  can  you  re- 
member my  presumption  and  check  your  scorn?  Perhaps  you 
think  that  by  so  late  a  confession  I  have  already  deceived  you. 
Alas!  you  know  not  what  it  costs  me  now  to  confess!  I  had 
only  one  hope  in  life, — it  was  that  you  might  still,  long  after 
you  had  ceased  to  see  me,  fancy  me  not  utterly  beneath  the 
herd  with  whom  you  live.  This  burning  yet  selfish  vanity  I 
tear  from  me,  and  now  I  go  where  no  hope  can  pursue  me. 
No  hope  for  myself,  save  one  which  can  scarcely  deserve  the 
name,  for  it  is  rather  a  rude  and  visionary  wish  than  an  expec- 
tation: it  is,  that  under  another  name,  and  under  different 
auspices,  you  may  hear  of  me  at  some  distant  time ;  and  when 
I  apprise  you  that  under  that  name  you  may  recognize  one  who 
loves  you  better  than  all  created  things,  you  may  feel  then  at 
least,  no  cause  for  shame  at  your  lover.  What  willow/  be  then? 
A  happy  wife — a  mother — the  centre  of  a  thousand  joys — :be- 
loved,  admired — blest  when  the  eye  sees  you  and  the  ear 
hears!  And  this  is  what  I  ought  to  hope;  this  is  the  consola- 
tion that  ought  to  cheer  me ;  perhaps  a  little  time  hence  it 
will.  Not  that  I  shall  love  you  less ;  but  that  I  shall  love  you 
less  burningly,  and  therefore  less  selfishly.  I  have  now  written 
to  you  all  that  it  becomes  you  to  receive  from  me.  My  horse 
waits  below  to  bear  me  from  the  city,  and  forever  from  your 
vicinity.  Forever! — ay,  you  are  the  only  blessing  forever  for- 
bidden me.  Wealth  I  may  gain — a  fair  name — even  glory  I 
may  perhaps  aspire  to! — to  Heaven  itself  I  may  find  a  path; 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  257 

but  of  you  my  very  dreams  cannot  give  me  the  shadow  of  a 
hope.  I  do  not  say,  if  you  could  pierce  my  soul  while  I  write 
that  you  would  pity  me.  You  may  think  it  strange,  but  I  would 
not  have  your  pity  for  worlds ;  I  think  I  would  even  rather 
have  your  hate,  pity  seems  so  much  like  contempt.  But  if 
you  knew  what  an  effort  has  enabled  me  to  tame  down  my  lan- 
guage, to  curb  my  thoughts,  to  prevent  me  from  embodying 
that  which  now  makes  my  brain  whirl,  and  my  hand  feel  as  if 
the  living  fire  consumed  it ;  it  you  knew  what  has  enabled  me 
to  triumph  over  the  madness  at  my  heart,  and  spare  you  what 
if  writ  or  spoken,  would  seem  like  the  ravings  of  insanity,  you 
would  not,  and  you  could  not,  despise  me,  though  you  might 
abhor. 

"And  now,  Heaven  guard  and  bless  you !  Nothing  on  earth 
could  injure  you.  And  even  the  wicked  who  have  looked  upon 
you  learn  to  pray — /  have  prayed  for  you ! ' ' 

Thus  (abrupt  and  signatureless)  ended  the  expected  letter. 
Lucy  came  down  the  next  morning  at  her  usual  hour,  and,  ex- 
cept that  she  was  very  pale,  nothing  in  her  appearance  seemed 
to  announce  past  grief  or  emotion.  The  squire  asked  her  if 
she  had  received  the  promised  letter?  She  answered  in  a  clear, 
though  faint  voice,  that  she  had — that  Mr.  Clifford  had  con- 
fessed himself  of  too  low  an  origin  to  hope  for  marriage  with 
Mr.  Brandon's  family;  that  she  trusted  the  squire  would  keep 
his  secret ;  and  that  the  subject  might  never  again  be  alluded 
to  by  either.  If,  in  this  speech,  there  was  something  alien  to 
Lucy's  ingenuous  character,  and  painful  to  her  mind,  she  felt 
it,  as  it  were,  a  duty  to  her  former  lover  not  to  betray  the  whole 
of  that  confession  so  bitterly  wrung  from  him.  Perhaps,  too, 
there  was  in  that  letter  a  charm  which  seemed  to  her  too  sacred 
to  be  revealed  to  any  one.  And  mysteries  were  not  excluded 
even  from  a  love  so  ill-placed,  and  seemingly  so  transitory,  as 
hers. 

Lucy's  answer  touched  the  squire  in  his  weak  point.  "A 
man  of  decidedly  low  origin,"  he  confessed,  "was  utterly  out 
of  the  question ;  nevertheless  the  young  man  showed  a  great 
deal  of  candor  in  his  disclosure."  He  readily  promised  never 
to  broach  a  subject  necessarily  so  unpleasant ;  and  though  he 
sighed  as  he  finished  his  speech,  yet  the  extreme  quiet  of 
Lucy's  manner  reassured  him ;  and  when  he  perceived  that  she 
resumed,  though  languidly,  her  wonted  avocations,  he  felt  but 
little  doubt  of  her  soon  overcoming  the  remembrance  of  what, 
he  hoped,  was  but  a  girlish  and  fleeting  fancy.  He  yielded, 


358  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

with  avidity,  to  her  proposal  to  return  to  Warlock ;  and  in  the 
same  week  as  that  in  which  Lucy  had  received  her  lover's  mys- 
terious letter,  the  father  and  daughter  commenced  their  jour- 
ney home. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Butler.  What  are  these,  sir  ? 
Yeoman.  And  of  what  nature — to  what  use  ? 
Latroc.  Imagine. —  The  Tragedy  of  Rollo. 

Quickly.  He's  in  Arthur's  bosom,  if  ever  man  went  to  Arthur's  bosom. 

—Henry  V. 

THE  stream  of  our  narrative  now  conducts  us  back  to  Will- 
iam Brandon.  The  law-promotions  previously  intended  were 
completed;  and,  to  the  surprise  of  the  public,  the  envied 
barrister,  undergoing  the  degradation  of  knighthood,  had,  at 
the  time  we  return  to  him,  just  changed  his  toilsome  occupa- 
tions for  the  serene  dignity  of  the  bench.  Whatever  regret 
this  wily  and  aspiring  schemer  might  otherwise  have  felt  at  an 
elevation  considerably  less  distinguished  than  he  might  reason- 
ably have  expected,  was  entirely  removed  by  the  hopes 
afforded  to  him  of  a  speedy  transition  to  a  more  brilliant  office: 
it  was  whispered  among  those  not  unlikely  to  foresee  such 
events,  that  the  interest  of  the  government  required  his  talents 
in  the  house  of  peers.  Just  at  this  moment,  too,  the  fell 
disease,  whose  ravages  Brandon  endeavored,  as  jealously  as 
possible,  to  hide  from  the  public,  had  appeared  suddenly  to 
yield  to  the  skill  of  a  new  physician ;  and  by  the  administra- 
tion of  medicines  which  a  man  less  stern  or  resolute  might 
have  trembled  to  adopt  (so  powerful,  and  for  the  most  part, 
deadly  was  their  nature),  he  passed  from  a  state  of  almost  in- 
sufferable torture  to  an  elysium  of  tranquillity  and  ease;  per- 
haps, however,  the  medicines  which  altered  also  decayed  his 
constitution:  and  it  was  observable,  that  in  two  cases,  where  the 
physician  had  attained  a  like  success  by  the  same  means,  the 
patients  had  died  suddenly,  exactly  at  the  time  when  the  cure 
seemed  to  be  finally  completed.  However,  Sir  William  Bran- 
don appeared  very  little  anticipative  of  danger.  His  manner 
became  more  cheerful  and  even  than  it  had  ever  been  before ; 
there  was  a  certain  lightness  in  his  gait,  a  certain  exhilaration 
in  his  voice  and  eye,  which  seemed  the  tokens  of  one  from 
whom  a  heavy  burden  had  been  suddenly  raised,  and  who  was 
no  longer  prevented  from  the  eagerness  of  hope  by  the  engross- 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  259 

ing  claims  of  a  bodily  pain.  He  had  always  been  bland  in 
society,  but  now  his  courtesy  breathed  less  of  artifice, — it  took  a 
more  hearty  tone.  Another  alteration  was  discerned  in  him, 
and  that  was  precisely  the  reverse  of  what  might  have  been 
expected.  He  became  more  thrifty — more  attentive  to  the  ex- 
penses of  life  than  he  had  been.  Though  a  despiser  of  show 
and  ostentation,  and  far  too  hard  to  be  luxurious,  he  was  too 
scientific  an  architect  of  the  weaknesses  of  others  not  to  have 
maintained  during  his  public  career  an  opulent  appearance  and 
a  hospitable  table.  The  profession  he  had  adopted  requires, 
perhaps,  less  of  externals  to  aid  it  than  any  other ;  still  Brandon 
had  affected  to  preserve  parliamentary  as  well  as  legal  impor- 
tance ;  and,  though  his  house  was  situated  in  a  quarter  entirely 
professional,  he  had  been  accustomed  to  assemble  round  his 
hospitable  board  all  who  were  eminent,  in  his  political  party, 
for  rank  or  for  talent.  Now.  however,  when  hospitality,  and  a 
certain  largeness  of  expenses,  better  became  his  station,  he  grew 
closer  and  more  exact  in  his  economy.  Brandon  never  could 
have  degenerated  into  a  miser  ;  money,  to  one  so  habitually  wise 
as  he  was,  could  never  have  passed  from  means  into  an  object; 
but  he  had  evidently,  for  some  cause  or  another,  framed  the 
resolution  to  save.  Some  said  it  was  the  result  of  returning 
health,  and  the  hope  of  a  prolonged  life,  to  which  many  ob- 
jects for  which  wealth  is  desirable  might  occur.  But  when 
it  was  accidentally  ascertained  that  Brandon  had  been  making 
several  inquiries  respecting  a  large  estate  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Warlock,  formerly  in  the  possession  of  his  family,  the  gossips 
(for  Brandon  was  a  man  to  be  gossiped  about)  were  no  longer 
in  want  of  a  motive,  false  or  real,  for  the  judge's  thrift. 

It  was  shortly  after  his  elevation  to  the  bench,  and  ere  these 
signs  of  change  had  become  noticeable,  that  the  same  strange 
ragamuffin  whom  we  have  mentioned  before,  as  introduced 
by  Mr.  Swoppem  to  a  private  conference  with  Brandon,  was 
admitted  to  the  judge's  presence. 

"Wellr"  said  Brandon,  impatiently,  the  moment  the  door 
was  closed,  "your  news?" 

"Vy,  your  onor, "  said  the  man  bashfully,  twirling  a  thing 
that  stood  proxy  for  a  hat,  "I  thinks  as  ow  I  shall  be  hable  to 
satisfy  your  vorship's  onor."     Then  approaching  the  judge, 
and  assuming  an  important  air,  he  whispered : 
'Tis  as  ow  I  thought!" 

"My  God!"  cried  Brandon,  with  vehemence.  "And  he.  is 
alive? — and  where?" 

"I  believes,"  answered  the  seemly  confidant  of  Sir  William 


260  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

Brandon,  "that  he  he's  alive;  and  if  he  he's  alive,  may  I  flash 
my  ivories  in  a  glass  case,  if  I  does  not  ferret  him  out ;  but  as 
to  saying  vhere  he  be  at  this  nick  o'  the  moment,  smash  me  if 
I  can!" 

"Is  he  in  this  country?"  said  Brandon;  "or  do  you  believe 
that  he  has  gone  abroad?" 

"Vy,  much  of  one  and  not  a  little  of  the  other!"  said  the 
euphonious  confidant. 

"How!   speak  plain,  man — what  do  you  mean?" 

"Vy,  I  means,  your  onor,  that  I  can't  say  vhere  he  is." 

"And  this,"  said  Brandon,  with  a  muttered  oath, — "this  is 
vour  boasted  news,  is  it?  Dog!  damned,  damned  dog!  if  you 
trifle  with  me,  or  play  me  false,  I  will  hang  you, — by  the  living 
G— ,  I  will!" 

The  man  shrunk  back  involuntarily  from  Brandon's  vindic- 
tive forehead  and  kindled  eyes;  but  with  the  cunning  peculiar 
to  low  vice  answered,  though  in  an  humbler  tone : 

"And  vot  good  vill  that  do  your  onor?  If  so  be  as  ow  you 
scrags  I,  vill  that  put  your  vorship  in  the  vay  of  finding  he?  " 

Never  was  there  an  obstacle  in  grammar  through  which  a 
sturdy  truth  could  not  break ;  and  Brandon,  after  a  moody 
pause,  said  in  a  milder  voice, — "I  did  not  mean  to  frighten 
you !  Never  mind  what  I  said ;  but  you  can  surely  guess  where- 
abouts he  is,  or  what  means  of  life  he  pursues?  perhaps" — and 
a  momentary  paleness  crossed  Brandon's  swarthy  visage, — 
"perhaps  he  may  have  been  driven  into  dishonesty  in  order  to 
maintain  himself!" 

The  informant  replied  with  great  naive  t^  that  "such  a  thing 
was  not  umpossible!"  And  Brandon  then  entered  into  a  series 
of  seemingly  careless  but  artful  cross-questionings,  which  either 
the  ignorance  or  the  craft  of  the  man  enabled  him  to  baffle. 
After  some  time,  Brandon,  disappointed  and  dissatisfied,  gave 
up  his  professional  task;  and,  bestowing  on  the  man  many  sa- 
gacious and  minute  instructions,  as  well  as  a  very  liberal  dona- 
tion, he  was  forced  to  dismiss  his  mysterious  visitor,  and  to 
content  himself  with  an  assured  assertion,  that  if  the  object  of 
his  inquiries  should  not  already  be  gone  to  the  devil,  the  strange 
gentleman  employed  to  discover  him  would  certainly,  sooner 
or  later,  bring  him  to  the  judge. 

This  assertion,  and  the  interview  preceding  it,  certainly 
inspired  Sir  William  Brandon  with  a  feeling  like  complacency, 
although  it  was  mingled  with  a  considerable  alloy. 

"I  do  not,"  thought  he.  concluding  his  meditations  when  he 
was  left  alone, — "I  do  not  see  what  else  I  can  do!  Since  it 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  261 

appears  that  the  boy  had  not  even  a  name  when  he  set  out 
alone  from  his  wretched  abode,  I  fear  that  an  advertisement 
would  have  but  little  chance  of  even  designating,  much  less 
of  finding  him,  after  so  long  an  absence.  Besides,  it  might 
make  me  the  prey  to  impostors ;  and,  in  all  probability,  he  has 
either  left  the  country,  or  adopted  some  mode  of  living  which 
would  prevent  his  daring  to  disclose  himself!"  This  thought 
plunged  the  soliloquist  into  a  gloomy  abstraction,  which  lasted 
several  minutes,  and  from  which  he  started,  muttering  aloud: 

"Yes,  yes!  I  dare  to  believe,  to  hope  it. — Now  for  the  min- 
ister, and  the  peerage!"  And  from  that  time  the  root  of  Sir 
William  Brandon's  ambition  spread  with  a  firmer  and  more 
extended  grasp  over  his  mind. 

We  grieve  very  much  that  the  course  of  our  story  should  now 
oblige  us  to  record  an  event  which  we  would  willingly  have 
spared  ourselves  the  pain  of  narrating.  The  good  old  Squire 
of  Warlock  Manor-house  had  scarcely  reached  his  home  on  his 
return  from  Bath,  before  William  Brandon  received  the  follow- 
ing letter  from  his  brother's  gray-headed  butler: 

"HONNURED  SUR: 

"I  send  this  with  all  speede,  thof  with  a  hevy  hart,  to  ax- 
quainte  you  with  the  sudden  (and  it  is  feered  by  his  loving 
friends  and  well-wishers,  which  latter,  to  be  sur,  is  all  as  knows 
him)  dangeros  ilness  of  the  Squire.*  He  was  seezed,  poor  deer 
gentleman  (for  God  never  made  a  better,  no  offence  to  your 
Honnur),  the  moment  he  set  footing  in  his  Own  Hall,  and 
what  has  hung  rond  me  like  a  mill-ston  ever  sin,  is  that  instead 
of  his  saying — 'How  do  you  do,  Sampson?'  as  was  his  wont, 
whenever  he  returned  from  forren  parts,  sich  as  Bath,  Lunnun. 
and  the  like;  he  said;  'God  bless  you,  Sampson!'  which  makes 
me  think  sumhow  that  it  will  be  his  last  wurds;  for  he  has 
never  spoke  sin,  for  all  Miss  Lucy  be  by  his  bedside  continue/. 
She,  poor  deer,  don't  take  on  at  all,  in  regard  of  crying  and 
such  woman's  wurk,  but  looks  nevertheless,  for  all  the  wurld, 
just  like  a  copse.  I  sends  Tom  the  postilion  with  this  hex- 
press,  nowing  he  is  a  good  hand  at  a  gallop,  having,  not  six- 
teen years  ago,  beat  some  o'  the  best  on  un  at  a  raceng. 
Hoping  as  yer  honnur  will  lose  no  time  in  coming  to  this 
'hous  of  mourning, '  I  remane,  with  all  respect, 

"Your  Honnur's  humble  sarvant 

"to  command,          JOHN  SAMPSON." 

*  The  reader,  who  has  doubtless  noticed  how  invariably  servants  of  long  standing  acquire 
a  certain  tone  from  that  of  their  master,  may  observe  that  honest  John  Sampson  had  caught 
from  the  squire  the  habit  of  parenthetical  composition. 


262  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

Sir  William  Brandon  did  not  give  himself  time  to  re-read 
this  letter,  in  order  to  make  it  more  intelligible,  before  he  wrote 
to  one  of  his  professional  compeers,  requesting  him  to  fill  his 
place  during  his  unavoidable  absence,  on  the  melancholy  occa- 
sion of  his  brother's  expected  death ;  and  having  so  done,  he 
immediately  set  off  for  Warlock.  Inexplicable  even  to  himself 
was  that  feeling,  so  nearly  approaching  to  real  sorrow,  which 
the  worldly  lawyer  felt  at  the  prospect  of  losing  his  guileless 
and  unspeculating  brother.  Whether  it  be  that  turbulent  and 
ambitious  minds,  in  choosing  for  their  wavering  affections  the 
very  opposites  of  themselves,  feel  (on  losing  the  fellowship  of 
those  calm,  fair  characters  that  have  never  crossed  their  rugged 
path)  as  if  they  lost,  in  losing  them,  a  kind  of  haven  for  their 
own  restless  thoughts  and  tempest-worn  designs! — be  this  as  it 
may,  certainly  it  is,  that  when  William  Brandon  arrived  at  his 
brother's  door,  and  was  informed  by  the  old  butler,  who,  for 
the  first  time,  was  slow  to  greet  him,  that  the  squire  had  just 
breathed  his  last,  his  austere  nature  forsook  him  at  once,  and 
he  felt  the  shock  with  a  severity  perhaps  still  keener  than  that 
which  a  more  genial  and  affectionate  heart  would  have  expe- 
rienced. 

As  soon  as  he  had  recovered  his  self-possession,  Sir  William 
made  question  of  his  niece;  and  finding  that  after  an  unrelax- 
ing  watch  during  the  whole  of  the  squire's  brief  illness,  nature 
had  failed  her  at  his  death,  and  she  had  been  borne  senseless 
from  his  chamber  to  her  own,  Brandon  walked  with  a  step  far 
different  from  his  usual  stately  gait  to  the  room  where  his 
brother  lay.  It  was  one  of  the  oldest  apartments  in  the  house, 
and  much  of  the  ancient  splendor  that  belonged  to  the  man- 
sion ere  its  size  had  been  reduced,  with  the  fortunes  of  its  suc- 
cessive owners,  still  distinguished  the  chamber.  The  huge 
mantel-piece  ascending  to  the  carved  ceiling  in  grotesque 
pilasters,  and  scroll-work  of  the  blackest  oak,  with  the  quar- 
tered arms  of  Brandon  and  Saville  escutcheoned  in  the  cen- 
tre,— the  panelled  walls  of  the  same  dark  wainscot, — the  armoire 
of  ebony, — the  high-backed  chairs,  with  their  tapestried  seats, — 
the  lofty  bed,  with  its  hearse-like  plumes  and  draperies  of  a 
crimson  damask  that  seemed,  so  massy  was  the  substance,  and 
so  prominent  the  flowers,  as  if  it  were  rather  a  carving  than 
a  silk, — all  conspired  with  the  size  of  the  room  to  give  it  a 
feudal  solemnity,  not  perhaps  suited  to  the  rest  of  the  house, 
but  well  calculated  to  strike  a  gloomy  awe  into  the  breast  of  the 
worldly  and  proud  man  who  now  entered  the  death-chamber 
of  his  brother. 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  263 

Silently  William  Brandon  motioned  away  the  attendants,  and 
silently  he  seated  himself  by  the  bed,  and  looked  long  and  wist- 
fully upon  the  calm  and  placid  features  of  the  deceased.  It 
is  difficult  to  guess  at  what  passed  within  him  during  the  space 
of  time  in  which  he  remained  alone  in  that  room.  The  apart- 
ment itself  he  could  not,  at  another  period,  have  tenanted 
without  secret  emotion.  It  was  that  in  which,  as  a  boy,  he  had 
himself  been  accustomed  to  sleep ;  and,  even  then  a  schemer 
and  an  aspirant,  the  very  sight  of  the  room  sufficed  to  call 
back  all  the  hopes  and  visions,  the  restless  projects  and  the 
feverish  desires,  which  had  now  brought  him  to  the  envied 
state  of  an  acknowledged  celebrity  and  a  shattered  frame. 
There  must  have  been  something  awful  in  the  combination  of 
those  active  remembrances  with  the  cause  which  had  led  him 
to  that  apartment;  and  there  was  a  homily  in  that  serene  coun- 
tenance of  the  dead,  which  preached  more  effectually  to  the 
heart  to  the  living  than  William  Brandon  would  ever  have 
cared  to  own.  He  had  been  more  than  an  hour  in  the  room, 
and  the  evening  had  already  begun  to  cast  deep  shadows 
through  the  small  panes  of  the  half-closed  window,  when 
Brandon  was  startled  by  a  slight  noise.  He  looked  up,  and 
beheld  Lucy  opposite  to  him.  She  did  not  see  him;  but 
throwing  herself  upon  the  bed,  she  took  the  cold  hand  of  the 
deceased,  and,  after  a  long  silence,  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

"My  father!"  she  sobbed, — "my  kind  good  father!  who 
will  love  me  now?" 

"I!"  said  Brandon,  deeply  affected;  and,  passing  round 
the  bed,  he  took  his  niece  in  his  arms:  "I  will  be  your  father, 
Lucy,  and  you — the  last  of  our  race — shall  be  to  me  as  a 
daughter!" 


264  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

"  Falsehood  in  him  was  not  the  useless  lie 
Of  boasting  pride  or  laughing  vanity  : 
It  was  the  gainful — the  persuading  art,"  etc. 

CRABBE. 

"  On  with  the  horses — off  to  Canterbury, 
Tramp — tramp  o'er  pebble,  and  splash — splash  thro'  puddle  ! 
Hurrah  !  how  swiftly  speeds  the  post  ?o  merry  ! 

******* 

'  Here  laws  are  all  inviolate  ;  none  lay 
Traps  for  the  traveller  ;  every  highway's  clear  ; 
Here — ,  he  was  interrupted  by  a  knife, 

With  '  D your  eyes  ! — your  money  or  your  life  ! '  " 

— Don  Juan. 

MISFORTUNES  are  like  the  creations  of  Cadmus — they  destroy 
one  another!  Roused  from  the  torpor  of  mind  occasioned  by 
the  loss  of  her  lover  at  the  sudden  illness  of  the  squire,  Lucy 
had  no  thought  for  herself — no  thought  for  any  one — for  any- 
thing but  her  father,  till  long  after  the  earth  had  closed  over 
his  remains.  The  very  activity  of  the  latter  grief  was  less 
dangerous  than  the  quiet  of  the  former ;  and  when  the  first 
keenness  of  sorrow  passed  away,  and  her  mind  gradually  and 
mechanically  returned  to  the  remembrance  of  Clifford,  it  was 
with  an  intensity  less  strong,  and  less  fatal  to  her  health  and 
happiness  than  before.  She  thought  it  unnatural  and  criminal 
to  allow  anything  else  to  grieve  her,  while  she  had  so  sacred  a 
grief  as  that  of  her  loss ;  and  her  mind,  once  aroused  into  re- 
sistance to  passion,  betrayed  a  native  strength  little  to  have 
been  expected  from  her  apparent  character.  Sir  William  Bran- 
don lost  no  time  in  returning  to  town  after  the  burial  of  his 
brother.  He  insisted  upon  taking  his  niece  with  him ;  and, 
though  with  real  reluctance,  she  yielded  to  his  wishes,  and  ac- 
companied him.  By  the  squire's  will,  indeed,  Sir  William  was 
appointed  guardian  to  Lucy,  and  she  yet  wanted  more  than  a 
year  of  her  majority. 

Brandon,  with  a  delicacy  very  uncommon  to  him  where 
women  (for  he  was  a  confirmed  woman-hater)  were  concerned, 
provided  everything  that  he  thought  could  in  any  way  conduce 
to  her  comfort.  He  ordered  it  to  be  understood  in  his  estab- 
lishment that  she  was  its  mistress.  He  arranged  and  fur- 
nished, according  to  what  he  imagined  to  be  her  taste,  a 
suite  of  apartments  for  her  sole  accommodation ;  a  separate 
carriage  and  servants  were  appropriated  to  her  use ;  and  he 
sought,  by  perpetual  presents  of  books,  or  flowers,  or  music, 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  265 

to  occupy  her  thoughts,  and  atone  for  the  solitude  to  which  his 
professional  duties  obliged  him  so  constantly  to  consign  her. 
These  attentions,  which  showed  this  strange  man  in  a  new  light, 
seemed  to  bring  out  many  little  latent  amiabilities,  which  were 
usually  imbedded  in  the  callosities  of  his  rocky  nature ;  and, 
even  despite  her  causes  for  grief  and  the  deep  melancholy 
which  consumed  her,  Lucy  was  touched  with  gratitude  at  kind- 
ness doubly  soothing  in  one  who,  however  urbane  and  polished, 
was  by  no  means  addicted  to  the  little  attentions  that  are  con- 
sidered so  gratifying  by  women,  and  yet  for  which  they  so 
often  despise,  while  they  like,  him  who  affords  them.  There 
was  much  in  Brandon  that  wound  itself  insensibly  around  the 
heart.  To  one  more  experienced  than  Lucy,  this  involuntary 
attraction  might  not  have  been  incompatible  with  suspicion, 
and  could  scarcely  have  been  associated  with  esteem ;  and  yet 
for  all  who  knew  him  intimately,  even  for  the  penetratng  and 
selfish  Mauleverer,  the  attraction  existed :  unprincipled,  crafty, 
hypocritical,  even  base  when  it  suited  his  purpose ;  secretly 
sneering  at  the  dupes  he  made,  and  knowing  no  code  save  that 
of  interest  and  ambition ;  viewing  men  only  as  machines,  and 
opinions  only  as  ladders, — there  was  yet  a  tone  of  powerful 
feeling  sometimes  elicited  from  a  heart  that  could  at  the  same 
moment  have  sacrificed  a  whole  people  to  the  pettiest  personal 
object :  and  sometimes  with  Lucy  the  eloquence  or  irony  of 
his  conversation  deepened  into  a  melancholy — a  half-suppressed 
gentleness  of  sentiment,  that  accorded  with  the  state  oi/ier  own 
mind  and  interested  her  kind  feelings  powerfully  in  his.  It 
was  these  peculiarities  in  his  converse  which  made  Lucy  love  to 
hear  him;  and  she  gradually  learned  to  anticipate  with  a 
gloomy  pleasure  the  hour  in  which,  after  the  occupations  of  the 
day,  he  was  accustomed  to  join  her. 

"You  look  unwell,  uncle,  to-night,"  she  said,  when  one 
evening  he  entered  the  room  with  looks  more  fatigued  than 
usual;  and,  rising,  she  leaned  tenderly  over  him,  and  kissed 
his  forehead. 

"Ay!"  said  Brandon,  utterly  unwon  by,  and  even  unheed- 
ing, the  caress,  "our  way  of  life  sooi\  passes  into  the  sear  and 
yellow  leaf;  and  when  Macbeth  grieved  that  he  might  not  look 
to  have  that  which  should  accompany  old  age,  he  had  grown 
doting,  and  grieved  for  what  was  worthless." 

"Nay,  uncle,  'honor,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends,' — 
these  surely  were  worth  the  sighing  for?" 

"Pooh!  not  worth  a  single  sigh!  The  foolish  wishes  we 
form  in  youth  have  something  noble,  and  something  bodily  in 


266  PAUL  CLIFFORD. 

them ;  but  those  of  age  .  are  utter  shadows,  and  the  shadows 
of  pigmies!  Why,  what  is  honor,  after  all?  What  is  this  good 
name  among  men? — Only  a  sort  of  heathenish  idol,  set  up  to 
be  adored  by  one  set  of  fools,  and  scorned  by  another.  Do 
you  not  observe,  Lucy,  that  the  man  you  hear  most  praised  by 
the  party  you  meet  to-day,  is  most  abused  by  that  which  you 
meet  to-morrow?  Public  men  are  only  praised  by  their  party; 
and  their  party,  sweet  Lucy,  are  such  base  minions,  that  it 
moves  one's  spleen  to  think  one  is  so  little  as  to  be  useful  to 
them.  Thus  a  good  name  is  only  the  good  name  of  a  sect,  and 
the  members  of  that  sect  are  only  marvellous  proper  knaves." 

"But  posterity  does  justice  to  those  who  really  deserve  fame. " 

"Posterity!  Can  you  believe  that  a  man  who  knows  what 
life  is,  cares  for  the  penny  whistles  of  grown  children  after  his 
death?  Posterity,  Lucy — no!  Posterity  is  but  the  same  per- 
petuity of  fools  and  rascals;  and  even  were  justice  desirable  at 
their  hands,  they  could  not  deal  it.  Do  men  agree  whether 
Charles  Stuart  was  a  liar  or  a  martyr?  For  how  many  ages 
have  we  believed  Nero  a  monster!  A  writer  now  asks,  as  if 
demonstrating  a  problem,  what  real  historian  could  doubt 
that  Nero  was  a  paragon?  The  patriarchs  of  Scripture  have 
been  declared  by  modern  philosophy  to  be  a  series  of  astronom- 
ical hieroglyphs;  and,  with  greater  show  of  truth,  we  are 
assured  that  the  patriot  Tell  never  existed!  Posterity!  the 
word  has  gulled  men  enough  without  my  adding  to  the  num- 
ber. I,  who  loathe  the  living,  can  scarcely  venerate  the  un- 
born. Lucy,  believe  me,  that  no  man  can  mix  largely  with 
men  in  political  life,  and  not  despise  every  thing  that  in  youth 
he  adored!  Age  leaves  us  only  one  feeling — contempt!" 

"Are  you  belied,  then?"  said  Lucy  pointing  to  a  newspaper 
the  organ  of  the  party  opposed  to  Brandon;  "Are  you  belied 
when  you  are  here  called  'ambitious'?  When  they  call  you 
'selfish'  and  'grasping'  I  know  they  wrong  you;  but  I  confess 
that  I  have  thought  you  ambitious ;  yet  can  he  who  despises 
men  desire  their  good  opinion?" 

' ' Their  good  opinion ! ' '  repeated  Brandon  mockingly :  "Do 
we  want  the  bray  of  the  asses  we  ride? — No!"  he  resumed, 
after  a  pause.  "It  is  power,  not  honor ;  it  is  the  hope  of 
elevating  oneself  in  every  respect,  in  the  world  without,  as  well 
as  in  the  world  of  one's  own  mind:  it  is  this  hope  which  makes 
me  labor  where  I  might  rest,  and  will  continue  the  labor  to  my 
grave.  Lucy,"  continued  Brandon,  fixing  his  keen  eyes  on  his 
niece,  "have  you  no  ambition?  have  power,  and  pomp,  and 
place,  no  charm  for  your  mind?" 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  267 

"None!"  said  Lucy  quietly  and  simply. 

"Indeed!  yet  there  are  times  when  I  have  thought  I  recog- 
nized my  blood  in  your  veins.  You  are  sprung  from  a  once 
noble,  but  a  fallen  race.  Are  you  ever  susceptible  to  the 
weakness  of  ancestral  pride?" 

"You  say,"  answered  Lucy,  "that  we  should  care  not  for  those 
who  live  after  us ;  much  less,  I  imagine,  should  we  care  for 
those  who  have  lived  ages  before!" 

"Prettily  answered,"  said  Brandon,  smiling.  "I  will  tell  you 
at  one  time  or  another  what  effect  that  weakness  you  despise 
already,  once  had,  long  after  your  age,  upon  me.  You  are  early 
wise  on  some  points — profit  by  my  experience,  and  be  so  on 
all." 

"That  is  to  say,  in  despising  all  men  and  all  things!"  said 
Lucy,  also  smiling. 

"Well,  nevermind  my  creed;  you  may  be  wise  after  your 
own ;  but  trust  one,  dearest  Lucy,  who  loves  you  purely  and 
disinterestedly,  and  who  has  weighed  with  scales  balanced  to  a. 
hair  all  the  advantages  to  be  gleaned  from  an  earth,  in  which 
I  verily  think  the  harvest  was  gathered  before  we  were  put  into 
it, — trust  me,  Lucy,  and  never  think  love — that  maiden's 
dream — so  valuable  as  rank  and  power ;  pause  well  before  you 
yield  to  the  former;  accept  the  latter  the  moment  they  are 
offered  you.  Love  puts  you  at  the  feet  of  another,  and  that 
other  a  tyrant ;  rank  puts  others  at  your  feet  and  all  those  thus 
subjected  are  your  slaves!" 

Lucy  moved  her  chair  (so  that  the  new  position  concealed 
her  face)  and  did  not  answer;  and  Brandon,  in  an  altered 
tone,  continued: 

"Would  you  think,  Lucy,  that  I  once  was  fool  enough  to 
imagine  that  love  was  a  blessing,  and  to  be  eagerly  sought  for? 
I  gave  up  my  hopes,  my  chances  of  wealth,  of  distinction,  all 
that  had  burned  from  the  years  of  boyhood  into  my  very  heart. 
I  chose  poverty,  obscurity,  humiliation, — but  I  chose  also  love. 
What  was  my  reward?  Lucy  Brandon,  I  was  deceived — 
deceived ! " 

Brandon  paused,  and  Lucy  took  his  hand  affectionately, 
but  did  not  break  the  silence.  Brandon  resumed : 

"Yes,  I  was  deceived!  But  I  in  my  turn  had  a  revenge, — 
and  a  fitting  revenge;  for  it  was  not  the  revenge  of  hatred, 
but"  (and  the  speaker  laughed  sardonically)  "of  contempt. 
Enough  of  this,  Lucy!  What  I  wished  to  say  to  you  is  this — 
grown  men  and  women  know  more  of  the  truth  of  things  than 
ye  young  persons  think  for.  Love  is  a  mere  bauble,  and  no 


268  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

human  being  ever  exchanged  for  it  one  solid  advantage  with- 
out repentance.  Believe  this;  and  if  rank  ever  puts  itself  under 
those  pretty  feet,  be  sure  not  to  spurn  the  footstool." 

So  saying,  with  a  slight  laugh,  Brandon  lighted  his  chamber 
candle,  and  left  the  room  for  the  night. 

As  soon  as  the  lawyer  reached  his  own  apartment,  he  indited 
to  Lord  Mauleverer  the  following  epistle: 

"Why,  dear  Mauleverer,  do  you  not  come  to  town?  I  want 
you, — your  party  wants  you ;  perhaps  the  K — g  wants  you ; 
and  certainly,  if  you  are  serious  about  my  niece,  the  care  of 
your  own  love-suit  should  induce  you  yourself  to  want  to  come 
hither.  I  have  paved  the  way  for  you ;  and  I  think,  with  a 
little  management,  you  may  anticipate  a  speedy  success ;  but 
Lucy  is  a  strange  girl;  and  perhaps,  after  all,  though  you 
ought  to  be  on  the  spot,  you  had  better  leave  her  as  much  as 
possible  in  my  hands.  I  know  human  nature,  Mauleverer,  and 
that  knowledge  is  the  engine  by  which  I  will  work  your  tri- 
umph. As  for  the  young  lover,  I  am  not  quite  sure  whether  it 
be  not  better  for  our  sake  that  Lucy  should  have  experienced 
a  disappointment  on  that  score ;  for  when  a  woman  has  once 
loved,  and  the  love  is  utterly  hopeless,  she  puts  all  vague  ideas 
of  other  lovers  altogether  out  of  her  head ;  she  becomes  con- 
tented with  a  husband  whom  she  can  esteem!  Sweet  canter! 
But  you,  Mauleverer,  want  Lucy  to  love  you!  And  so  she 
will — after  you  have  married  her!  She  will  love  you  partly 
from  the  advantages  she  derives  from  you,  partly  from  familiar- 
ity (to  say  nothing  of  your  good  qualities).  For  my  part,  I 
think  domesticity  goes  so  far,  that  I  believe  a  woman  always 
inclined  to  be  affectionate  to  a  man  whom  she  has  once  seen  in 
his  nightcap.  However,  you  should  come  to  town ;  my  poor 
brother's  recent  death  allows  us  to  see  no  one, — the  coast  will 
be  clear  from  rivals ;  grief  has  softened  my  niece's  heart ;  in 
a  word,  you  could  not  have  a  better  opportunity.  Come! 

"By  the  way,  you  say  one  of  the  reasons  which  make  you 
think  ill  of  this  Captain  Clifford  was  your  impression  that,  in 
the  figure  of  one  of  his  comrades,  you  recognized  something 
that  appeared  to  you  to  resemble  one  of  the  fellows  who 
robbed  you  a  few  months  ago.  I  understand  that,  at  this  mo- 
ment the  police  are  in  active  pursuit  of  three  most  accom- 
plished robbers;  nor  should  I  be  at  all  surprised  if  in  this  very 
Clifford  were  to  be  found  the  leader  of  the  gang,  viz.,  the 
notorious  Lovett.  I  hear  that  the  said  leader  is  a  clever  and  a 
handsome  fellow,  of  a  gentlemanlike  address,  and  that  his  gen- 
eral associates  are  two  men  of  the  exact  stamp  of  the  worthies 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  269 

you  have  so  amusingly  described  to  me.  I  heard  this  yester- 
day from  Nabbem,  the  police-officer,  with  whom  I  once  scraped 
acquaintance  on  a  trial ;  and  in  my  grudge  against  your  rival, 
I  hinted  at  my  suspicion  that  he,  Captain  Clifford,  might  not 
impossibly  prove  this  Rinaldo  Rinaldini  of  the  roads.  Nab- 
bem caught  at  my  hint  at  once ;  so  that,  if  it  be  founded  on 
a  true  guess,  I  may  flatter  my  conscience,  as  well  as  my  friend- 
ship, by  the  hope  that  I  had  some  hand  in  hanging  this  Adonis 
of  my  niece's.  Whether  my  guess  be  true  or  not,  Nabbem 
says  he  is  sure  of  this  Lovett ;  for  one  of  his  gang  has  promised 
to  betray  him.  Hang  these  aspiring  dogs!  I  thought  treach- 
ery was  confined  to  politics ;  and  that  thought  makes  me  turn 
to  public  matters, — in  which  all  people  are  turning  with  the 
most  edifying  celerity.'' 


Sir  William  Brandon's  epistle  found  Mauleverer  in  a  fitting 
mood  for  Lucy  and  for  London.  Our  worthy  peer  had  been 
not  a  little  chagrined  by  Lucy's  sudden  departure  from  Bath; 
and  while  in  doubt  whether  or  not  to  follow  her,  the  papers 
had  informed  him  of  the  squire's  death.  Mauleverer,  being 
then  fully  aware  of  the  impossibility  of  immediately  urging  his 
suit,  endeavored,  like  the  true  philosopher  he  was,  to  reconcile 
himself  to  his  hope  deferred.  Few  people  were  more  easily 
susceptible  of  consolation  than  Lord  Mauleverer.  He  found 
an  agreeable  lady,  of  a  face  more  unfaded  than  her  reputation, 
to  whom  he  intrusted  the  care  of  relieving  his  leisure  moments 
from  ennui ;  and  being  a  lively  woman,  the  confidante  dis- 
charged the  trust  with  great  satisfaction  to  Lord  Mauleverer, 
for  the  space  of  a  fortnight,  so  that  he  naturally  began  to  feel 
his  love  for  Lucy  gradually  wearing  away,  by  absence  and  other 
ties ;  but  just  as  the  triumph  of  time  over  passion  was  growing 
decisive,  the  lady  left  Bath  in  company  with  a  tall  guardsman, 
and  Mauleverer  received  Brandon's  letter.  These  two  events 
recalled  our  excellent  lover  to  a  sense  of  his  allegiance ;  and 
there  being  now  at  Bath  no  particular  attraction  to  counter- 
balance the  ardor  of  his  affection,  Lord  Mauleverer  ordered 
the  horses  to  his  carriage,  and,  attended  only  by  his  valet, 
set  out  for  London.  Nothing,  perhaps,  could  convey  a  better 
portrait  of  the  world's  spoiled  darling  than  a  sight  of  Lord 
Mauleverer's  thin,  fastidious  features,  peering  forth  through 
the  closed  window  of  his  luxurious  travelling  chariot ;  the  rest 
of  the  outer  man  being  carefully  enveloped  in  furs,  half  a 
dozen  novels  strewing  the  seat  of  the  carriage,  and  a  lean 


270  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

French  dog,  exceedingly  like  its  master,  sniffing  in  vain  for 
the  fresh  air,  which,  to  the  imagination  of  Mauleverer,  was 
peopled  with  all  sorts  of  asthmas  and  catarrhs !  Mauleverer 
got  out  of  his  carriage  at  Salisbury,  to  stretch  his  limbs,  and  to 
amuse  himself  with  a  cutlet.  Our  nobleman  was  well  known 
on  the  roads;  and,  as  nobody  could  be  more  affable,  he  was 
equally  popular.  The  officious  landlord  bustled  into  the  room, 
to  wait  himself  upon  his  lordship,  and  to  tell  all  the  news  of  the 
place. 

"Well,  Mr.  Cheerly,"  said  Mauleverer,  bestowing  a  penetra- 
ting glance  on  his  cutlet,  "the  bad  times,  I  see,  have  not 
ruined  your  cook." 

"Indeed,  my  lord,  your  lordship  is  very  good,  and  the  times, 
indeed,  are  very  bad — very  bad  indeed.  Is  there  enough 
gravy?  Perhaps  your  lordship  will  try  the  pickled  onions?" 

"The  what? — Onions! — oh! — ah!  nothing  can  be  better; 
but  I  never  touch  them.  So,  are  the  roads  good?" 

"Your  lordship  has,  I  hope,  found  them  good  to  Salis- 
bury." 

"Ah!  I  believe  so.  Oh!  to  be  sure,  excellent  to  Salisbury. 
But  how  are  they  to  London?  We  have  had  wet  weather 
lately,  I  think!" 

"No,  my  lord.  Here,  the  weather  has  been  as  dry  as 
a  bone." 

"Or  a  cutlet!"  muttered  Mauleverer,  and  the  host  con- 
tinued: 

"As  for  the  roads  themselves,  my  lord — so  far  as  the  roads 
are  concerned — they  are  pretty  good,  my  lord;  but  I  can't  say 
as  how  there  is  not  something  about  them  that  might  be 
mended." 

"By  no  means  improbable! — You  mean  the. inns  and  the 
turnpikes?"  rejoined  Mauleverer. 

"Your  lordship  is  pleased  to  be  facetious;  no!  I  meant  some- 
thing worse  than  them." 

"What!   the  cooks?" 

"No^  my  lord, — the  highwaymen!" 

"The  highwaymen! — indeed  !"  said  Mauleverer  anxiously; 
for  he  had  with  him  a  case  of  diamonds,  which  at  that  time 
were,  on  grand  occasions,  often  the  ornaments  of  a  gentleman's 
dress,  in  the  shape  of  buttons,  buckles,  etc. ;  he  had  also  a  tolera- 
bly large  sum  of  ready  money  about  him,  a  blessing  he  had 
lately  begun  to  find  very  rare. 

"By  the  way,  the  rascals  robbed  me  before  on  this  very 
road.  My  pistols  shall  be  loaded  this  time, — Mr.  Cheerly, 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  2?i 

you  had  better  order  the  horses ;  one  may  as  well  escape  the 
nightfall." 

"Certainly,  my  lord — certainly. — Jem,  the  horses  immediate- 
ly!— Your  lordship  will  have  another  cutlet?" 

"Not  a  morsel!" 

"A  tart?" 

"A  dev — !  not  for  the  world !" 

"Bring  the  cheese,  John!" 

"Much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Cheerly,  but  I  have  dined;  and 
if  I  have  not  done  justice  to  your  good  cheer,  thank  yourself 
and  the  highwaymen. — Where  do  these  highwaymen  attack 
one?" 

"Why,  my  lord,  the  neighborhood  of  Reading  is,  I  believe, 
the  worst  part ;  but  they  are  very  troublesome  all  the  way  to 
Salthill." 

"Damnation! — the  very  neighborhood  in  which  the  knaves 
robbed  me  before! — You  may  well  call  them  troublesome! 
Why  the  deuce  don't  the  police  clear  the  county  of  such  a 
movable  species  of  trouble?" 

"Indeed,  my  lord,  I  don't  know:  but  they  say  as  how  Cap- 
tain Lovett,  the  famous  robber,  be  one  of  the  set ;  and  nobody 
can  catch  him,  I  fear!" 

"Because,  I  suppose,  the  dog  has  the  sense  to  bribe  as  well 
as  bully. — What  is  the  general  number  of  these  ruffians?" 

"Why,  my  lord,  sometimes  one,  sometimes  two,  but  seldom 
more  than  three." 

Mauleverer  drew  himself  up.  "My  dear  diamonds,  and  my 
pretty  purse!"  thought  he;  "I  may  save  you  yet!" 

"Have  you  been  long  plagued  with  the  fellows?"  he  asked, 
after  a  pause,  as  he  was  paying  his  bill. 

"Why,  my  lord,  we  have  and  we  have  not.  I  fancy  as  how 
they  have  a  sort  of  haunt  near  Reading,  for  sometimes  they  are 
intolerable  just  about  there,  and  sometimes  they  are  quiet  for 
months  together!  For  instance,  my  lord,  we  thought  them  all 
gone  some  time  ago ;  but  lately  they  have  regularly  stopped 
every  one,  though  I  hear  as  how  they  have  cleared  no  great 
booty  as  yet." 

Here  the  waiter  announced  the  horses,  and  Mauleverer 
slowly  re-entered  his  carriage,  among  the  bows  and  smiles  of  the 
charmed  spirits  of  the  hostelry. 

During  the  daylight,  Mauleverer,  who  was  naturally  of  a  gal- 
lant and  fearless  temper,  thought  no  more  of  the  highway- 
men,— a  species  of  danger  so  common  at  that  time,  that  men 
almost  considered  it  disgraceful  to  suffer  the  dread  of  it  to  be 


J2?2  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

.1  cause  of  delay  on  the  road.  Travellers  seldom  deemed  it 
best  to  lose  time  in  order  to  save  money  and  they  carried  with 
them  a  stout  heart  and  a  brace  of  pistols,  instead  of  sleeping  all 
night  on  the  road.  Mauleverer,  rather  a  prettx  chevalier,  was 
precisely  of  this  order  of  wayfarers ;  and  a  night  at  an  inn,  when 
it  was  possible  to  avoid  it,  was  to  him,  as  to  most  rich  English- 
men, a  tedious  torture  zealously  to  be  shunned.  It  never, 
therefore,  entered  into  the  head  of  our  excellent  nobleman,  de- 
spite his  experience,  that  his  diamonds  and  his  purse  might  be 
saved  from  all  danger,  if  he  would  consent  to  deposit  them, 
with  his  own  person,  at  some  place  of  hospitable  reception ; 
nor,  indeed,  was  it  till  he  was  within  a  stage  of  Reading,  and 
the  twilight  had  entirely  closed  in,  that  he  troubled  his  head 
much  on  the  matter.  But  while  the  horses  were  putting  to,  he 
summoned  the  postboys  to  him;  and,  after  regarding  their 
countenances  with  the  eye  of  a  man  accustomed  to  read  physi- 
ognomies, he  thus  eloquently  addressed  them : 

"Gentlemen, — I  am  informed  that  there  is  some  danger  of 
being  robbed  between  this  town  and  Salthill.  Now,  I  beg  to 
inform  you,  that  I  think  it  next  to  impossible  for  four  horses, 
properly  directed,  to  be  stopped  by  less  than  four  men.  To 
that  number  I  shall  probably  yield ;  to  a  less  number  I  shall 
most  assuredly  give  nothing  but  bullets.  You  understand 
me." 

The  postboys  grinned,  touched  their  hats,  and  Mauleverer 
slowly  continued : 

"If,  therefore,- — mark  me! — one,  two,  or  three  men  stop 
your  horses,  and  I  find  that  the  use  of  your  whips  and  spurs  are 
ineffectual  in  releasing  the  animals  from  the  hold  of  the  robbers, 
I  intend  with  these  pistols — you  observe  them! — to  shoot  at 
the  gentlemen  who  detain  you ;  but  as,  though  I  am  generally 
a  dead  shot,  my  eyesight  wavers  a  little  in  the  dark,  I  think  it 
very  possible  that  I  may  have  the  misfortune  to  shoot  you, 
gentlemen,  instead  of  the  robbers!  You  see  the  rascals  will  be 
close  by  you,  sufficiently  so  to  put  you  in  jeopardy,  unless,  in- 
deed, you  knock  them  down  with  the  butt-end  of  your  whips. 
I  merely  mention  this,  that  you  may  be  prepared.  Should 
such  a  mistake  occur,  you  need  not  be  uneasy  beforehand,  for 
I  will  take  every  possible  care  of  your  widows ;  should  it  not, 
and  should  we  reach  Salthill  in  safety,  I  intend  to  testify  my 
sense  of  the  excellence  of  your  driving  by  a  present  of  ten 
guineas  apiece!  Gentlemen,  I  have  done  with  you.  I  give 
you  my  honor,  that  I  am  serious  in  what  I  have  said  to  you, 
Do  me  the  favor  to  mount." 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  273 

Mauleverer  then  Called  his  favorite  servant,  who  sat  in  the 
dickey  in  front  (rumble  tumbles  not  being  then  in  use). 

"Smoothson,"  said  he,  "the  last  time  we  were  attacked  on 
this  very  road,  you  behaved  damnably.  See  that  you  do  better 
this  time,  or  it  may  be  the  worse  for  you.  You  have  pistols 
to-night  about  you,  eh?  Well!  that's  right!  and  you  are  sure 
they're  loaded?  Very  well!  Now,  then,  if  we  are  stopped 
don't  lose  a  moment.  Jump  down,  and  fire  one  of  your  pistols 
at  the  first  robber.  Keep  the  other  for  a  sure  aim.  One  shot 
is  to  intimidate,  the  second  to  slay.  You  comprehend?  My 
pistols  are  in  excellent  order,  I  suppose.  Lend  me  the  ramrod. 
So,  so1  No  trick  this  time!" 

"They  would  kill  a  fly,  my  lord,  provided  your  lordship  fired 
straight  upon  it." 

"I  do  not  doubt  you,"  said  Mauleverer;  "light  the  lanterns 
and  tell  the  postboys  to  drive  on." 

It  was  a  frosty  and  tolerable  clear  night.  The  dusk  of  the 
twilight  had  melted  away  beneath  the  moon  which  had  just 
risen,  and  the  hoary  rime  glittered  from  the  bushes  and  the 
sward,  breaking  into  a  thousand  diamonds  as  it  caught  the  rays 
of  the  stars.  On  went  the  horses  briskly,  their  breath  steam- 
ing against  the  fresh  air,  and  their  hoofs  sounding  cheerily 
on  the  hard  ground.  The  rapid  motion  of  the  carriage — the 
bracing  coolness  of  the  night — and  the  excitement  occasioned 
by  anxiety  and  the  forethought  of  danger,  all  conspired  to  stir 
the  languid  blood  of  Lord  Mauleverer  into  a  vigorous  and  ex- 
hilarated sensation,  natural  in  youth  to  his  character,  but  utter- 
ly contrary  to  the  nature  he  had  imbibed  from  the  customs  of 
his  manhood. 

He  felt  his  pistols,  and  his  hands  trembled  a  little  as  he  did 
so :  not  the  least  from  fear,  but  from  that  restlessness  and 
eagerness  peculiar  to  nervous  persons  placed  in  a  new  situa- 
tion. 

"In  this  country,"  said  he  to  himself,  "I  have  been  only 
once  robbed  in  the  course  of  my  life.  It  was  then  a  little  my 
fault ;  for  before  I  took  to  my  pistols,  I  should  have  been 
certain  they  were  loaded.  To-night,  I  shall  be  sure  to  avoid 
a  similar  blunder ;  and  my  pistols  have  an  eloquence  in  their 
barrels  which  is  exceedingly  moving.  Humph,  another  mile- 
stone !  These  fellows  drive  well ;  but  we  are  entering  a  pretty- 
looking  spot  for  Messieurs  the  disciples  of  Robin  Hood!" 

It  was,  indeed,  a  picturesque  spot  by  which  the  carriage  was 
now  rapidly  whirling.  A  few  miles  from  Maidenhead,  on  the 
Henley  Road,  our  readers  will  probably  remember  a  small  tract 


274  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

of  forestlike  land,  lying  on  either  side  of  the  road.  To  the  left, 
the  green  waste  bears  away  among  trees  and  bushes ;  and  one 
skilled  in  the  country  may  pass  from  that  spot,  through  a 
landscape  as  little  tenanted  as  green  Sherwood  was  formerly, 
into  the  chains  of  wild  common  and  deep  beech-woods  which 
border  a  certain  portion  of  Oxfordshire,  and  contrast  so  beau- 
tifully the  general  characteristics  of  that  county. 

At  the  time  we  speak  of,  the  country  was  even  far  wilder 
than  it  is  now;  and  just  on  that  point  where  the  Henley  and 
the  Reading  roads  unite  was  a  spot  (communicating  then  with 
the  waste  land  we  have  described),  than  which,  perhaps,  few 
places  could  be  more  adapted  to  the  purposes  of  such  true  men 
as  have  recourse  to  the  primary  law  of  nature.  Certain  it  was 
that  at  this  part  of  the  road  Mauleverer  looked  more  anxiously 
from  his  window  than  he  had  hitherto  done,  and  appar- 
ently the  increased  earnestness  of  his  survey  was  not  altogether 
without  meeting  its  reward. 

About  a  hundred  yards  to  the  left,  three  dark  objects  were 
just  discernible  in  the  shade;  a  moment  more,  and  the  objects 
emerging  grew  into  the  forms  of  three  men,  well  mounted,  and 
riding  at  a  brisk  trot. 

"Only  three!"  thought  Mauleverer,  "that  is  well, "and  lean- 
ing from  the  front-window  with  a  pistol  in  either  hand,  Maul- 
everer cried  out  to  the  postboys  in  a  stern  tone,  "Drive  on,  and 
recollect  what  I  told  you! — Remember!"  he  added  to  his  ser- 
vant, The  postboys  scarcely  looked  round ;  but  their  spurs 
were  buried  in  their  horses,  and  the  animals  flew  on  like  light- 
ning. 

The  three  strangers  made  a  halt,  as  if  in  conference :  their 
decision  was  prompt.  Two  wheeled  round  from  their  comrade, 
and  darted  at  full  gallop  by  the  carriage.  Mauleverer  "s  pistol 
was  already  protruded  from  the  front-window,  when  to  his  as- 
tonishment, and  to  the  utter  baffling  of  his  ingenious  admoni- 
tion to  his  drivers,  he  beheld  the  two  postboys  knocked  from 
their  horses  one  after  the  other  with  a  celerity  that  scarcely  al- 
lowed him  an  exclamation ;  and  before  he  had  recovered  his 
self-possession,  the  horses  taking  fright  (and  their  fright  being 
skillfully  taken  advantage  of  by  the  highwaymen),  the  carriage 
was  fairly  whirled  into  a  ditch  on  the  right  side  of  the  road,  and 
upset.  Meanwhile,  Smoothson  had  leaped  from  his  station  in 
the  front;  and  having  fired,  though  without  effect,  at  the  third 
robber,  who  approached  menacingly  towards  him,  he  gained 
the  time  to  open  the  carriage  door,  and  extricate  his  master. 

The  moment  Mauleverer  found  himself  on  terra  firtna,  he 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  2?5 

prepared  his  courage  for  offensive  measures,  and  he  and  Smooth- 
son  standing  side  by  side  in  front  of  the  unfortunate  vehicle, 
presented  no  unformidable  aspect  to  the  enemy.  The  two 
robbers  who  had  so  decisively  rid  themselves  of  the  postboys 
acted  with  no  less  determination  towards  the  horses.  One  of 
them  dismounted,  cut  the  traces,  and  suffered  the  plunging 
quadrupeds  to  go  whither  they  listed.  This  measure  was  not, 
however,  allowed  to  betaken  with  impunity;  a  ball  from  Maul- 
everer's  pistol  passed  through  the  hat  of  the  highwayman  with 
an  aim  so  slightly  erring,  that  it  whizzed  among  the  locks  of  the 
astounded  hero  with  a  sound  that  sent  a  terror  to  his  heart,  no 
less  from  a  love  of  his  head  than  from  anxiety  for  his  hair. 
The  shock  staggered  him  for  a  moment ;  and  a  second  shot 
from  the  hands  of  Mauleverer  would  have  probably  finished  his 
earthly  career,  had  not  the  third  robber,  who  had  hitherto  re- 
mained almost  inactive,  thrown  himself  from  his  horse,  which, 
tutored  to  such  docility,  remained  perfectly  still,  and  advancing 
with  a  bold  step  and  a  levelled  pistol  toward  Mauleverer  and 
his  servant,  said  in  a  resolute  voice,  "Gentlemen,  it  is  useless 
to  struggle ;  we  are  well  armed,  and  resolved  on  effecting  our 
purpose ;  your  persons  shall  be  safe  if  you  lay  down  your  arms, 
and  also  such  part  of  your  property  as  you  may  particularly 
wish  to  retain.  But  if  you  resist,  I  cannot  answer  for  your 
lives!" 

Mauleverer  had  listened  patiently  to  this  speech  in  order 
that  he  might  have  more  time  for  adjusting  his  aim:  his  reply 
was  a  bullet,  which  grazed  the  side  of  the  speaker  and  tore 
away  the  skin,  without  inflicting  any  more  dangerous  wound. 
Muttering  a  curse  upon  the  error  of  his  aim,  and  resolute  to 
the  last  when  his  blood  was  once  up,  Mauleverer  backed  one 
pace,  drew  his  sword,  and  threw  himself  into  the  attitude  of  a 
champion  well  skilled  in  the  use  of  the  instrument  he  wore. 

But  that  incomparable  personage  was  in  a  fair  way  of  ascer- 
taining what  happiness  in  the  world  to  come  is  reserved  for  a 
man  who  has  spared  no  pains  to  make  himself  comfortable  in 
this.  For  the  two  first  and  most  active  robbers,  having  finished 
the  achievement  of  the  horses,  now  approached  Mauleverer, 
and  the  taller  of  them,  still  indignant  at  the  late  peril  to  his  hair, 
cried  out  in  a  stentorian  voice: 

"By  Jove!  you  old  fool,  if  you  don't  throw  down  your 
toasting-fork,  I'll  be  the  death  of  you!" 

The  speaker  suited  the  action  to  the  word,  by  cocking  an  im- 
mense pistol.  Mauleverer  stood  his  ground;  but  Smoothson 
retreated,  and  stumbling  against  the  wheel  of  the  carriage  fell 


2?6  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

backward;  the  next  instant,  the  second  'highwayman  had  pos- 
sessed himself  of  the  valet's  pistols,  and,  quietly  seated  on  the 
fallen  man's  stomach,  amused  himself  by  inspecting  the  con- 
tents of  the  domestic's  pockets.  Mauleverer  was  now  alone, 
and  his  stubbornness  so  enraged  the  tall  bully  that  his  hand  was 
already  on  his  trigger,  when  the  third  robber,  whose  side  Maul- 
everer's  bullet  had  grazed,  thrust  himself  between  the  two. — • 
"Hold,  Ned!"  said  he,  pushing  back  his  comrade's  pistol. — 
"And  you,  my  lord,  whose  rashness  ought  to  cost  you  your  life, 
learn  that  men  can  rob  generously."  So  saying,  with  one  dex- 
terous stroke  from  the  robber's  riding- whip,  Mauleverer' s  sword 
flew  upwards,  and  alighted  at  the  distance  of  ten  yards  from 
its  owner. 

"Approach  now,"  said  the  victor  to  his  comrades.  "Rifle 
the  carriage,  and  with  all  despatch ! ' ' 

The  tall  highwayman  hastened  to  execute  this  order ;  and 
the  lesser  one  having  satisfactorily  finished  the  inquisition  into 
Mr.  Smoothson's  pockets,  drew  forth  from  his  own  pouch  a 
tolerably  thick  rope ;  with  this  he  tied  the  hands  of  the  prostrate 
valet,  moralizing  as  he  wound  the  rope  round  and  round  the 
wrists  of  the  fallen  man,  in  the  following  edifying  strain: 

"Lie  still,  sir — lie  still,  I  beseech  you!  All  wise  men  are 
fatalists;  and  no  proverb  is  more  pithy  than  that  which  says, 
'what  can't  be  cured  must  be  endured.'  Lie  still,  I  tell  you! 
Little,  perhaps  do  you  think  that  you  are  performing  one  of  the 
noblest  functions  of  humanity:  yes,  sir,  you  are  filling  the 
pockets  of  the  destitute ;  and  by  my  present  action  I  am  secur- 
ing you  from  any  weakness  of  the  flesh  likely  to  impede  so 
praiseworthy  an  end,  and  so  hazard  the  excellence  of  your 
action.  There,  sir,  your  hands  are  tight, — lie  still  and  reflect." 

As  he  said  this,  with  three  gentle  applications  of  his  feet,  the 
moralist  rolled  Mr.  Smoothson  into  the  ditch,  and  hastened  to 
join  his  lengthy  comrade  in  his  pleasing  occupation. 

In  the  interim,  Mauleverer  and  the  third  robber  (who,  in  the 
true  spirit  of  government,  remained  dignified  and  inactive  while 
his  followers  plundered  what  he  certainly  designed  to  share,  if 
not  to  monopolize)  stood  within  a  few  feet  of  each  other,  face 
to  face. 

Mauleverer  had  now  convinced  himself  that  all  endeavor  to 
save  his  property  was  hopeless,  and  he  had  also  the  consolation 
of  thinking  he  had  done  his  best  to  defend  it.  He,  therefore, 
bade  all  his  thoughts  return  to  the  care  of  his  person.  He  ad- 
justed  his  fur  collar  around  his  neck  with  great  sang  froid,  drew 
pn  his  gloves,  and,  patting  his  terrified  poodle,  who  sat  shiver- 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  277 

ing  on  its  haunches  with  one  paw  raised,  and  nervously  trem- 
bling, he  said: 

"You,  sir,  seem  to  be  a  civil  person,  and  I  really  should 
have  felt  quite  sorry  if  I  had  had  the  misfortune  to  wound  you. 
You  are  not  hurt,  I  trust.  Pray,  if  I  may  inquire,  how  am  I  to 
proceed?  My  carriage  is  in  the  ditch,  and  my  horses  by  this 
time  are  probably  at  the  end  of  the  world." 

"As  for  that  matter,"  said  the  robber,  whose  face,  like  those 
of  his  comrades,  was  closely  masked  in  the  approved  fashion  of 
highwaymen  of  that  day,  "I  believe  you  will  have  to  walk  to 
Maidenhead, — it  is  not  far,  and  the  night  is  fine!" 

"A  very  trifling  hardship,  indeed !"  said  Mauleverer  ironi- 
cally ;  but  his  new  acquaintance  made  no  reply,  nor  did  he  ap- 
pear at  all  desirous  of  entering  into  any  further  conversation 
with  Mauleverer. 

The  earl,  therefore,  after  watching  the  operations  of  the  other 
robbers  for  some  moments,  turned  on  his  heel,  and  remained 
humming  an  opera  tune  with  dignified  indifference  until  the  pair 
had  finished  rifling  the  carriage,  and,  seizing  Mauleverer,  pro- 
ceeded to  rifle  him. 

With  a  curled  lip  and  a  raised  brow,  that  supreme  personage 
suffered  himself  to  be,  as  the  taller  robber  expressed  it,  "cleaned 
out."  His  watch,  his  rings,  his  purse,  and  his  snuff-box  all 
went.  It  was  long  since  the  rascals  had  captured  such  a  booty. 

They  had  scarcely  finished  when  the  postboys,  who  had  now 
begun  to  look  about  them,  uttered  a  simultaneous  cry,  and  at 
some  distance  a  wagon  was  seen  heavily  approaching.  Maul- 
everer really  wanted  his  money,  to  say  nothing  of  his  dia- 
monds ;  and  so  soon  as  he  perceived  assistance  at  hand,  a  new 
hope  darted  within  him.  His  sword  still  lay  on  the  ground; 
he  sprang  towards  it — seized  it,  uttered  a  shout  for  help,  and 
threw  himself  fiercely  on  the  highwayman  who  had  disarmed 
him ;  but  the  robber,  warding  off  the  blade  with  his  whip,  re- 
treated to  his  saddle,  which  he  managed,  despite  of  Mauleverer's 
lunges,  to  regain  with  impunity. 

The  other  two  had  already  mounted,  and  within  a  minute 
afterwards  not  a  vestige  of  the  trio  was  visible.  "This  is  what 
may  fairly  be  called  single  blessedness  !  ' '  said  Mauleverer  as, 
dropping  his  useless  sword,  he  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets. 

Leaving  our  peerless  peer  to  find  his  way  to  Maidenhead  on 
foot,  accompanied  (to  say  nothing  of  the  poodle)  by  one  wag- 
oner, two  postboys,  and  the  released  Mr.  Smoothson,  all  four 
charming  him  with  their  condolences,  we  follow  with  our  story 
the  steps  of  the  three  alieni  appeteiites. 


f>AtJL    CLIFFORD. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"  The  rogues  were  very  merry  on  their  booty.  They  said  a  thousand 
things  that  showed  the  wickedness  of  their  morals. — Gil  Bias. 

"  They  fixed  on  a  spot  where  they  made  a  cave,  which  was  large  enough 
to  receive  them  and  their  horses.  This  cave  was  inclosed  within  a  sort  of 
thicket  of  bushes  and  brambles.  From  this  station  they  used  to  issue," 
etc. — Memoirs  of  Richard  Turpin. 

IT  was  not  for  several  minutes  after  their  flight  had  com- 
menced that  any  conversation  passed  between  the  robbers. 
Their  horses  flew  on  like  wind,  and  the  country  through  which 
they  rode  presented  to  their  speed  no  other  obstacle  than  an 
occasional  hedge,  or  a  short  cut  through  the  thicknesses  of 
some  leafless  beechwood.  The  stars  lent  them  a  merry  light, 
and  the  spirits  of  two  of  them  at  least  were  fully  in  sympathy 
with  the  exhilaration  of  the  pace  and  the  air.  Perhaps,  in  the 
third,  a  certain  presentiment  that  the  present  adventure  would 
end  less  merrily  than  it  had  begun  conspired,  with  other  causes 
of  gloom,  to  check  that  exaltation  of  the  blood  which  gener- 
ally follows  a  successful  exploit. 

The  path  which  the  robbers  took  wound  by  the  sides  of  long 
woods,  or  across  large  tracts  of  uncultivated  land.  Nor  did 
they  encounter  anything  living  by  the  road,  save  now  and  then 
a  solitary  owl,  wheeling  its  gray  body  around  the  skirts  of  the 
bare  woods,  or  occasionally  troops  of  conies,  pursuing  their 
sports  and  enjoying  their  midnight  food  in  the  fields. 

''Heavens!"  cried  the  tall  robber  whose  incognito  we  need 
no  longer  preserve,  and  who,  as  our  readers  are  doubtless  aware, 
answered  to  the  name  or  Pepper, — "Heavens!"  cried  he,  look- 
ing upward  at  the  starry  skies  in  a  sort  of  ecstacy,  "what  a 
jolly  life  this  is!  Some  fellows  like  hunting;  d — nit!  what 
hunting  is  like  the  road?  If  there  be  sport  in  hunting  down  a 
nasty  fox,  how  much  more  is  there  in  hunting  down  a  nice 
clean  nobleman's  carriage!  If  there  be  joy  in  getting  a  brush, 
how  much  more  is  there  in  getting  a  purse!  If  it  be  pleasant 
to  fly  over  a  hedge  in  the  broad  daylight,  hang  me  if  it  be  not 
ten  times  finer  sport  to  skim  it  by  night, — here  goes!  Look 
how  the  hedges  run  away  from  us!  and  the  silly  old  moon  dances 
about,  as  if  the  sight  of  us  put  the  good  lady  in  spirits!  Those 
old  maids  are  always  glad  to  have  an  eye  upon  such  fine  dash- 
ing young  fellows." 

"Ay,"  cried  the  more  erudite  and  sententious  Augustus 
Tomlinson,  roused  by  success  from  his  usual  philosophical 
sobriety;  "no  work  is  so  pleasant  as  night-work,  and  the 


PAUL  CLIFFORD:  279 

witches  our  ancestors  burnt  were  in  the  right  to  ride  out  on  their 
broomsticks,  with  the  owls  and  the  stars.  We  are  th  ir  succes- 
sors now,  Ned.  We  are  your  true  fly-by-nights!" 

"Only,"  quoth  Ned,  "we  are  a  cursed  deal  more  clever  than 
they  were;  for  they  played  their  game  without  being  a  bit  the 
richer  for  it,  and  we — I  say,  Tomlinson,  where  the  devil  did 
you  put  that  red  morocco  case?" 

"Experience  never  enlightens  the  foolish!"  said  Tomlinson; 
"or  you  would  have  known,  without  asking,  that  I  had  put  it 
in  the  very  safest  pocket  in  my  coat.  'Gad,  how  heavy  it  is!" 

"Well!"  cried  Pepper,  "I  can't  say  I  wish  it  were  lighter! 
Only  think  of  our  robbing  my  lord  twice,  and  on  the  same 
road  too!" 

"I  say,  Lovett,"  exclaimed  Tomlinson,  "was  it  not  odd  that 
we  should  have  stumbled  upon  our  Bath  friend  so  unceremo- 
niously? Lucky  for  us  that  we  are  so  strict  in  robbing  in 
masks!  He  would  not  have  thought  the  better  of  Bath  com- 
pany if  he  had  seen  our  faces." 

Lovett,  or  rather  Clifford,  had  hitherto  been  silent.  He 
now  turned  slowly  in  his  saddle,  and  said:  "As  it  was,  the 
poor  devil  was  very  nearly  despatched.  Long  Ned  was 
making  short  work  with  him — if  I  had  not  interposed!" 

"And  why  did  you?"  said  Ned. 

"Because  I  will  have  no  killing:  it  is  the  curse  of  the  noble 
art  of  our  profession  to  have  passionate  professors  like  thee." 

"Passionate!"  repeated  Ned:  "well,  I  am  a  little  choleric, 
I  own  it ;  but  that  is  not  so  great  a  fault  on  the  road  as  it 
would  be  in  house-breaking.  I  don't  know  a  thing  that  re- 
quires so  much  coolness  and  self-possession  as  cleaning  out  a 
house  from  top  to  bottom, — quietly  and  civilly,  mind  you!" 

"That  is  the  reason,  I  suppose,  then,"  said  Augustus,  "that 
you  altogether  renounced  that  career.  Your  first  adventure 
was  house-breaking,  I  think  I  have  heard  you  say.  I  confess 
it  was  a  vulgar  debut — not  worthy  of  you!" 

"No! — Harry  Cook  seduced  me;  but  the  specimen  I  saw 
that  night  disgusted  me  of  picking  locks;  it  brings  one  in  con- 
tact with  such  low  companions :  only  think,  there  was  a  mer- 
chant— a  rag-merchant,  one  of  the  party!" 

"Faugh!"  said  Tomlinson,  in  solemn  disgust. 

"Ay,  you  may  well  turn  up  your  lip;  I  never  broke  into  a 
house  again." 

"Who  were  your  other  companions?"  asked  Augustus. 

"Only  Harry  Cook,*  and  a  very  singular  woman — " 

*  A  noted  highwayman. 


280  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

Here  Ned's  narrative  was  interrupted  by  a  dark  defile 
through  a  wood,  allowing  room  for  only  one  horseman  at  a 
time.  They  continued  this  gloomy  path  for  several  minutes, 
until  at  length  it  brought  them  to  the  brink  of  a  large  dell, 
overgrown  with  bushes,  and  spreading  around  somewhat  in  the 
form  of  a  rude  semicircle.  Here  the  robbers  dismounted,  and 
led  their  reeking  horses  down  the  descent.  Long  Ned,  who 
went  first,  paused  at  a  cluster  of  bushes,  which  seemed  so  thick 
as  to  defy  intrusion,  but  which  yielding,  on  either  side,  to  the 
experienced  hand  of  the  robber,  presented  what  appeared  the 
mouth  of  a  cavern.  A  few  steps  along  the  passage  of  this  gulf 
brought  them  to  a  door,  which,  even  seen  by  torch-light,  would 
have  appeared  so  exactly  similar  in  color  and  material  to  the 
rude  walls  on  either  side,  as  to  have  deceived  any  unsuspecting 
eye,  and  which,  in  the  customary  darkness  brooding  over  it, 
might  have  remained  for  centuries  undiscovered.  Touching  a 
secret  latch,  the  door  opened,  and  the  robbers  were  in  the 
secure  precincts  of  the  "Red  Cave-!"  It  may  be  remembered 
that  among  the  earlier  studies  of  our  exemplary  hero,  the  me- 
moirs of  Richard  Turpin  had  formed  a  conspicuous  portion ;  and 
it  may  also  be  remembered  that,  in  the  miscellaneous  adven- 
tures of  that  gentleman,  nothing  had  more  delighted  the  juve- 
nile imagination  of  the  student  than  the  description  of  the  for- 
est cave  in  which  the  gallant  Turpin  had  been  accustomed  to 
conceal  himself,  his  friend,  his  horse, 

"  And  that  sweet  saint  who  lay  by  Turpin's  side  "; 

or,  to  speak  more  domestically,  the  respectable  Mrs.  Turpin. 
So  strong  a  hold,  indeed,  had  that  early  reminiscence  fixed 
upon  our  hero's  mind,  that  no  sooner  had  he  risen  to  emi- 
nence among  his  friends,  than  he  had  put  the  project  of  his  child- 
hood into  execution.  He  had  selected  for  the  scene  of  his 
ingenuity  an  admirable  spot.  In  a  thinly  peopled  country, 
surrounded  by  commons  and  woods,  and  yet  (as  Mr.  Robins 
would  say,  if  he  had  to  dispose  of  it  by  auction)  "within  an 
easy  ride"  of  populous  and  well-frequented  roads,  it  possessed 
all  the  advantages  of  secrecy  for  itself,  and  convenience  for 
depredation.  Very  few  of  the  gang,  and  those  only  who  had 
been  employed  in  its  construction,  were  made  acquainted  with 
the  secret  of  this  cavern ;  and  as  our  adventurers  rarely  visited 
it,  and  only  on  occasions  of  urgent  want  or  secure  conceal- 
ment, it  had  continued  for  more  than  two  years  undiscovered 
and  unsuspected. 

The  cavern,  originally  hollowed  by  nature,  owed  but  little 


PAUL  CLIFFORD.  281 

to  the  decorations  of  art ;  nevertheless,  the  roughness  of  the 
walls  was  concealed  by  a  rude  but  comfortable  arras  of  mat- 
ting. Four  or  five  of  such  seats  as  the  robbers  themselves 
could  construct  were  drawn  around  a  small  but  bright  wood 
fire,  which,  as  there  was  no  chimney,  spread  a  thin  volume  of 
smoke  over  the  apartment.  The  height  of  the  cave,  added  to 
the  universal  reconciler — custom — prevented,  however,  this 
evil  from  being  seriously  unpleasant;  and,  indeed,  like  the 
tenants  of  an  Irish  cabin,  perhaps  the  inmates  attached  a  de- 
gree of  comfort  to  a  circumstance  which  was  coupled  with  their 
dearest  household  associations.  A  table,  formed  of  a  board 
coarsely  planed,  and  supported  by  four  legs  of  irregular  size, 
made  equal  by  the  introduction  of  blocks  or  wedges  between 
the  legs  and  the  floor,  stood  warming  its  uncouth  self  by  the 
fire.  At  one  corner,  a  covered  cart  made  a  conspicuous  article 
of  furniture,  no  doubt  useful  either  in  conveying  plunder  or 
provisions ;  beside  the  wheels  were  carelessly  thrown  two  or 
three  coarse  carpenter's  tools,  and  the  more  warlike  utilities  of  a 
blunderbuss,  a  rifle,  and  two  broadswords.  In  the  other  cor- 
ner was  an  open  cupboard,  containing  rows  of  pewter  platters, 
mugs,  etc.  Opposite  the  fire-place,  which  was  to  the  left  of 
the  entrance,  an  excavation  had  been  turned  into  a  dormitory ; 
and  fronting  the  entrance  was  a  pair  of  broad,  strong,  wooden 
steps,  ascending  to  a  large  hollow  about  eight  feet  from  the 
ground.  This  was  the  entrance  to  the  stables ;  and  as  soon  as 
their  owners  released  the  reins  of  the  horses,  the  docile  animals 
proceeded  one  by  one  leisurely  up  the  steps,  in  the  manner  of 
quadrupeds  educated  at  the  public  seminary  of  Astley's,  and 
disappeared  within  the  aperture. 

These  steps,  when  drawn  up — which,  however,  from  their 
extreme  clumsiness,  required  the  united  strength  of  two  ordi- 
nary men,  and  was  not  that  instantaneous  work  which  it  should 
have  been, — made  the  place  above  a  tolerably  strong  hold,  for 
the  wall  was  perfectly  perpendicular  and  level,  and  it  was  only 
by  placing  his  hands  upon  the  ledge,  and  so  lifting  himself  gym- 
nastically  upward,  that  an  active  assailant  could  have  reached 
the  eminence ;  a  work  which  defenders  equally  active,  it  may 
easily  be  supposed,  would  not  be  likely  to  allow. 

This  upper  cave — for  our  robbers  paid  more  attention  to 
their  horses  than  themselves,  as  the  nobler  animals  of  the  two 
species — was  evidently  fitted  up  with  some  labor.  The  stalls 
were  rudely  divided,  the  litter  of  dry  fern  was  clean,  troughs 
were  filled  with  oats,  and  a  large  tub  had  been  supplied  from  a 
pond  at  a  little  distance.  A  cart-harness,  and  some  old  wag- 


282  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

oner's  frocks,  were  fixed  on  pegs  to  the  wall.  While  at  a  far 
end  of  these  singular  stables  was  a  door  strongly  barred,  and  only 
just  large  enough  to  admit  the  body  of  a  man.  The  confeder- 
ates had  made  it  an  express  law  never  to  enter  their  domain  by 
this  door,  or  to  use  it,  except  for  the  purpose  of  escape,  should 
the  cave  ever  be  attacked ;  in  which  case,  while  one  or  two 
defended  the  entrance  from  the  inner  cave,  another  might 
unbar  the  door,  and  as  it  opened  upon  the  thickest  part  of  the 
wood,  through  which  with  great  ingenuity  a  labyrinthine  path 
had  been  cut,  not  easily  tracked  by  ignorant  pursuers,  these 
precautions  of  the  highwaymen  had  provided  a  fair  hope  of  at 
least  a  temporary  escape  from  any  invading  enemies. 

Such  were  the  domestic  arrangements  of  the  Red  Cave ;  and 
it  will  be  conceded  that  at  least  some  skill  had  been  shown  in 
the  choice  of  the  spot,  if  there  was  a  lack  of  taste  in  its  adorn- 
ments. 

While  the  horses  were  performing  their  nightly  ascent,  our 
three  heroes,  after  securing  the  door,  made  at  once  to  the  fire. 

And  there,  O  reader!  they  were  greeted  in  welcome  by 
one, — an  old  and  revered  acquaintance  of  thine, — whom  in 
such  a  scene  it  will  equally  astound  and  wound  thee  to  re-behold. 

Know,  then, — but  first  we  will  describe  to  thee  the  occupa- 
tion and  the  garb  of  the  august  personage  to  whom  we  allude. 
Bending  over  a  large  gridiron,  daintily  bespread  with  steaks  of 
the  fattest  rump,  the  INDIVIDUAL  stood,  with  his  right 
arm  bared  above  the  elbow,  and  his  right  hand  grasping  that 
mimic  trident  known  unto  gastronomers  by  the  monosyllable 
*'fork. "  His  wigless  head  was  adorned  with  a  cotton  night-cap. 
His  upper  vestment  was  discarded,  and  a  whitish  apron  flowed 
gracefully  down  his  middle  man.  His  stockings  were  ungar- 
tered,  and  permitted  between  the  knee  and  the  calf  interesting 
glances  of  the  rude  carnal.  One  list  shoe  and  one  of  leathern 
manufacture  cased  his  ample  feet.  Enterprise,  or  the  noble 
glow  of  his  present  culinary  profession,  spread  a  yet  rosier 
blush  over  a  countenance  early  tinged  by  generous  libations,  and 
from  beneath  the  curtain  of  his  pallid  eyelashes  his  large  and 
rotund  orbs  gleamed  dazzlingly  on  the  new-comers.  Such,  O 
reader!  was  the  aspect  and  the  occupation  of  the  venerable 
man  whom  we  have  long  since  taught  thee  to  admire ;  such — 
alas  for  the  mutabilities  of  earth! — was — anew  chapter  only 
can  contain  the  name. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD. 


283 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 
Caliban.   "  Hast  them  not  dropped  from  Heaven?" — Tempest. 


ER  MAC  CRAWLER 

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CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

"  God  bless  our  King  and  Parliament, 
And  send  he  may  make  such  knaves  repent ;  " 

— Loyal  Songs  against  the  Rump  Parliament. 
"  Ho,  treachery  !  my  guards,  my  cimeter  ! " — BYRON. 

WHEN  the  irreverent  Mr.  Pepper  had  warmed  his  hands 
sufficiently  to  be  able  to  transfer  them  from  the  fire,  he  lifted 
his  right  palm,  and,  with  an  indecent  jocularity  of  spirits,  ac- 
costed the  ci-devant  ornament  of  "The  Asinseum"  with  a 
sounding  slap  on  his  back — or  some  such  part  of  his  con- 
formation. 

"Ah,  old  boy!"  said  he,  "is  this  the  way  you  keep  house 
for  us?  A  fire  not  large  enough  to  roast  a  nit,  and  a  supper 
too  small  to  fatten  him  beforehand!  But  how  the  deuce  should 
you  know  how  to  provender  for  gentlemen?  You  thought  you 
were  in  Scotland,  I'll  be  bound!" 

"Perhaps  he  did,  when  he  looked  upon  you,  Ned!"  said 
Tomlinson  gravely ;  "  'tis  but  rarely  out  of  Scotland  that  a  man 
can  see  so  big  a  rogue  in  so  little  a  compass!" 

Mr.  Mac  Crawler,  into  whose  eyes  the  palmistry  of  Long 
Ned  had  brought  tears  of  sincere  feeling,  and  who  had  hitherto 
been  rubbing  the  afflicted  part,  now  grumbled  forth : 

"You  may  say  what  you  please,  Mr.  Pepper,  but  it  is  not 
often  in  my  country  that  men  of  genius  are  seen  performing 
the  part  of  cook  to  robbers!" 


284  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

"No!"  quoth  Tomlinson,  "they  are  performing  the  more 
profitable  part  of  robbers  to  cooks,  eh!" 

"Dammee,  you're  out,"  cried  Long  Ned;  "for  in  that  coun- 
try, there  are  either  no  robbers,  because  there  is  nothing  to 
rob ;  or  the  inhabitants  are  all  robbers,  who  have  plundered 
one  another,  and  made  away  with  the  booty!" 

"May  the  de'il  catch  thee!"  said  Mac  Crawler,  stung  to 
the  quick, — for,  like  all  Scots,  he  was  a  patriot;  much  on  the 
same  principle  as  a  woman  who  has  the  worst  children  makes 
the  best  mother. 

"The  de'il!"  said  Ned,  mimicking  the  "silver  sound,"  as 
Sir  W.  Scott  has  been  pleased  facetiously  to  call  the  "mountain 
tongue," — the  Scots  in  general  seem  to  think  it  is  silver,  they 
keep  it  so  carefully.  "The  de'il — Mac  Det7,  you  mean, — sure 
the  gentleman  must  have  been  a  Scotchman!" 

The  sage  grinned  in  spite ;  but  remembering  the  patience  of 
Epictetus  when  a  slave,  and  mindful  also  of  the  strong  arm  of 
Long  Ned,  he  curbed  his  temper,  and  turned  the  beefsteaks 
with  his  fork. 

"Well,  Ned,"  said  Augustus,  throwing  himself  into  a  chair 
which  he  drew  to  the  fire,  while  he  gently  patted  the  huge 
limbs  of  Mr.  Pepper,  as  if  to  admonish  him  that  they  were  not 
so  transparent  as  glass — "let  us  look  at  the  fire;  and,  by  the  by, 
it  is  your  turn  to  see  to  the  horses." 

"Plague  on  it!"  cried  Ned,  "it  is  always  my  turn,  I  think. 
Holla,  you  Scot  of  the  pot!  can't  you  prove  that  I  groomed 
the  beasts  last?  I'll  give  you  a  crown  to  do  it." 

The  wise  Mac  Grawler  pricked  up  his  ears. 

"A  crown!"  said  he, — "acrown!  do  you  mean  to  insult  me, 
Mr.  Pepper?  But,  to  be  sure,  you  did  see  to  the  horses  last, 
and  this  worthy  gentleman,  Mr.  Tomlinson,  must  remember 
it  too." 

"How,  I!"  cried  Augustus;  "you  are  mistaken,  and  I'll 
give  you  half  a  guinea  to  prove  it." 

Mac  Grawler  opened  his  eyes  larger  and  larger,  even  as  you 
may  see  a  small  circle  in  the  water  widen  into  enormity,  if  you 
disturb  the  equanimity  of  the  surface  by  the  obtrusion  of  a 
foreign  substance. 

"Half  a  guinea!"  said  he;  "nay,  nay,  you  joke:  I'm  not 
mercenary, — you  think  I  am !  Pooh,  pooh !  you  are  mistaken ; 
I'm  a  man  who  means  weel,  a  man  of  veracity,  and  will  speak 
the  truth  in  spite  of  all  the  half  guineas  in  the  world. 
But  certainly,  now  I  begin  to  think  of  it,  Mr.  Tomlinson 
did  see  to  the  creatures  last, — and,  Mr.  Pepper,  it  is  your  turn. " 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  285 

"A  very  Daniel!"  said  Tomlinson,  chuckling  in  his  usual 
dry  manner,  "Ned,  don't  you  hear  the  horses  neigh?" 

"Oh,  hang  the  horses!"  said  the  volatile  Pepper,  forgetting 
everything  else,  as  he  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  felt 
the  gains  of  the  night;  "  let  us  first  look  to  our  winnings!" 

So  saying,  he  marched  towards  the  table,  and  emptied  his 
pockets  thereon:  Tomlinson,  nothing  loath,  followed  the  ex- 
ample. Heavens!  what  exclamations  of  delight  issued  from 
the  scoundrels'  lips,  as,  one  by  one,  they  inspected  their  new 
acquisitions. 

"Here's  a  magnificent  creature!"  cried  Ned,  handling  that 
superb  watch  studded  with  jewels  which  the  poor  Earl  had 
once  before  unavailingly  redeemed:  "a  repeater,  by  Jove!" 

"I  hope  not,"  said  the  phlegmatic  Augustus;  "repeaters  will 
not  tell  well  for  your  conversation,  Ned !  But,  powers  that  be ! 
look  at  this  ring, — a  diamond  of  the  first  water!" 

"Oh,  the  sparkler!  it  makes  one's  mouth  water  as  much  as 
itself.  'Sdeath,  here's  a  precious  box  for  a  sneezer !  a  picture 
inside,  and  rubies  outside.  The  old  fellow  had  excellent 
taste !  it  would  charm  him  to  see  how  pleased  we  are  with  his 
choice  of  jewelry ! ' ' 

"Talking  of  jewelry,"  said  Tomlinson,  "I  had  almost  for- 
gotten the  morocco  case ;  between  you  and  me,  I  imagine  we 
have  a  prize  there:  it  looks  like  a  jewel  casket!" 

So  saying,  the  robber  opened  that  case  which  on  many  a  gala 
day  had  lent  lustre  to  the  polished  person  of  Mauleverer.  O 
reader,  the  burst  of  rapture  that  ensued!  imagine  it!  we  can- 
not express  it!  Like  the  Grecian  painter,  we  drop  a  veil  over 
emotions  too  deep  for  words. 

"But  here,"  said  Pepper,  when  they  had  almost  exhausted 
their  transports  at  sight  of  the  diamonds,  "here's  a  purse — 
fifty  guineas!  And  what's  this?  notes,  by  Jupiter!  We  must 
change  them  to-morrow  before  they  are  stopped.  Curse  those 
fellows  at  the  Bank!  they  are  always  imitating  us;  we  stop 
their  money,  and  they  don't  lose  a  moment  in  stopping  it  too. 
Three  hundred  pounds!  Captain,  what  say  you  to  our 
luck?" 

Clifford  had  sat  gloomily  looking  on,  during  the  operations 
of  the  robbers ;  he  now,  assuming  a  correspondent  cheerful- 
ness of  manner,  made  a  suitable  reply,  and  after  some  general 
conversation,  the  work  of  division  took  place. 

"We  are  the  best  arithmeticians  in  the  world!"  said  Augus- 
tus, as  he  pouched  his  share:  "addition,  subtraction,  division, 
reduction, — we  have  them  all  as  pat  as  'the  Tutor's  Assistant'; 


286  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

and,  what  is  better,  we  make  them  all  applicable  to  the  Rule 
of  Three." 

"You  have  left  out  multiplication!"  said   Clifford,  smiling. 

"Ah!  because  that  works  differently ;  the  other  rules  apply 
to  the  species  of  the  kingdom ;  but  as  for  multiplication,  we 
multiply,  I  fear,  no  species  but  our  own!" 

"Fie,  gentlemen!"  said  Mac  Crawler  austerely, — for  there 
is  a  wonderful  decorum  in  your  true  Scotsman.  Actions  are 
trifles;  nothing  can  be  cleaner  than  their  words! 

"Oh,  you  thrust  in  your  wisdom,  do  you?"  said  Ned.  "I 
suppose  you  want  your  part  of  the  booty!" 

"Part!"  said  the  subtilizing  Tomlinson.  "He  has  nine 
times  as  many  parts  as  we  have  already.  Is  he  not  a  critic, 
and  has  he  not  the  parts  of  speech  at  his  fingers'  end?" 

"Nonsense!"  said  Mac  Crawler,  instinctively  holding  up 
his  hands,  with  the  fork  dropping  between  the  out-stretched 
fingers  of  the  right  palm. 

"Nonsense  yourself,"  cried  Ned;  "you  have  a  share  in 
what  you  never  took!  A  pretty  fellow,  truly!  Mind  your 
business,  Mr.  Scot,  and  fork  nothing  but  the  beefsteaks!" 

With  this  Ned  turned  to  the  stables,  and  soon  disappeared 
among  the  horses ;  but  Clifford,  eyeing  the  disappointed  and 
eager  face  of  the  culinary  sage,  took  ten  guineas  from  his  own 
share,  and  pushed  them  towards  his  quondam  tutor. 

"There!"  said  he  emphatically. 

"Nay,  nay,"  grunted  Mac  Crawler;  "I  don't  want  the 
money, — it  is  my  way  to  scorn  such  dross!"  So  saying,  he 
pocketed  the  coins,  and  turned,  muttering  to  himself,  to  the 
renewal  of  his  festive  preparations. 

Meanwhile  a  whispered  conversation  took  place  between 
Augustus  and  the  captain,  and  continued  till  Ned  returned. 

"  And  the  night's  viands  smoked  along  the  board  !  " 

Souls  of  Don  Raphael  and  Ambrose  Lamela,  what  a  charm- 
ing thing  it  is  to  be  a  rogue  for  a  little  time !  How  merry  men 
are  when  they  have  cheated  their  brethren !  Your  innocent 
milksops  never  made  so  jolly  a  supper  as  did  our  heroes  of  the 
way.  Clifford,  perhaps,  acted  a  part,  but  the  hilarity  of  his 
comrades  was  unfeigned.  It  was  a  delicious  contrast, — the 
boisterous  "ha,  ha!"  of  Long  Ned,  and  the  secret,  dry,  calcu- 
lating chuckle  of  Augustus  Tomlinson.  It  was  Rabelais 
against  Voltaire.  They  united  only  in  the  objects  of  their  jests, 
and  foremost  of  those  objects  (wisdom  is  ever  the  butt  of  the 
frivolous!)  was  the  great  Peter  Mac  Crawler. 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  287 

The  graceless  dogs  were  especially  merry  upon  the  subject 
of  the  sage's  former  occupation. 

"Come,  Mac,  you  carve  this  ham,"  said  Ned;  "you  have 
had  practice  in  cutting  up." 

The  learned  man  whose  name  was  thus  disrespectfully  abbre- 
viated proceeded  to  perform  what  he  was  bid.  He  was  about 
to  sit  down  for  that  purpose,  when  Tomlinson  slyly  subtracted 
his  chair, — the  sage  fell. 

"No  jests  at  Mac  Grawler, "  said  the  malicious  Augustus; 
"whatever  be  his  faults  as  a  critic,  you  see  that  he  is  well 
grounded,  and  he  gets  at  once  to  the  bottom  of  a  subject. — 
Mac,  suppose  your  next  work  be  entitled  a  Tail  of  Woe ! ' ' 

Men  who  have  great  minds  are  rarely  flexible;  they  do  not 
take  a  jest  readily ;  so  it  was  with  Mac  Grawler.  He  rose  in  a 
violent  rage;  and  had  the  robbers  been  more  penetrating  than 
they  condescended  to  be,  they  might  have  noticed  something 
dangerous  in  his  eye.  As  it  was,  Clifford,  who  had  often  be- 
fore been  the  protector  of  his  tutor,  interposed  in  his  behalf, 
drew  the  sage  a  seat  near  to  himself,  and  filled  his  plate  for 
him.  It  was  interesting  to  see  this  deference  from  Power  to 
Learning!  It  was  Alexander  doing  homage  to  Aristotle! 

"There  is  only  one  thing  I  regret, "  cried  Ned,  with  his 
mouth  full,  "about  the  old  lord, — it  was  a  thousand  pities  we 
did  not  make  him  dance:  I  remember  the  day,  captain,  when 
you  would  have  insisted  on  it.  What  a  merry  fellow  you  were 
once!  Do  you  recollect,  one  bright  moonlight  night,  just  like 
the  present,  for  instance,  when  we  were  doing  duty  near 
Staines,  how  you  swore  every  person  we  stopped,  above  fifty 
years  old,  should  dance  a  minuet  with  you?" 

"Ay!"  added  Augustus,  "and  the  first  was  a  bishop  in  a 
white  wig.  Faith,  how  stiffly  his  lordship  jigged  it!  And  how 
gravely  Lovett  bowed  to  him,  with  his  hat  off,  when  it  was  all 
over,  and  returned  him  his  watch  and  ten  guineas, — it  was 
worth  the  sacrifice!" 

"And  the  next  was  an  old  maid  of  quality,"  said  Ned,  "as 
lean  as  a  lawyer.  Don't  you  remember  how  she  curvetted?" 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Tomlinson ;  "and  you  very  wittily  called 
her  a  fiap-po\e\" 

"How  delighted  she  was  with  the  captain's  suavity!  When 
he  gave  her  back  her  earrings  and  aigrette,  she  bade  him  with 
a  tender  sigh  keep  them  for  her  sake, — ha!  ha!" 

"And  the  third  was  a  beau!"  cried  Augustus;  "and  Lovett 
surrendered  his  right  of  partnership  to  me.  Do  you  recollect 
how  I  danced  his  beauship  into  the  ditch? — Ah!  we  were  mad 


288  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

fellows  then ;  but  we  get  sated — blasts,  as  the  French  say — as 
we  grow  older!" 

"We  look  only  to  the  main  chance  now,"  said  Ned. 
"Avarice   supersedes    enterprise,"    added    the    sententious. 
Augustus. 

"And  our  captain  takes  to  wine  with  an  h  after  the  w  /"  con- 
tinued the  metaphorical  Ned. 

"Come,  we  are  melancholy,"  said  Tomlinson,  tossing  off  a 
bumper.  "Methinks  we  are  really  growing  old.  We  shall 
repent  soon,  and  the  next  step  will  be — hanging!" 

'"Fore  Gad!"  said  Ned,  helping  himself,  "don't  be  so 
croaking.  There  are  two  classes  of  maligned  gentry,  who 
should  always  be  particular  to  avoid  certain  colors  in  dressing : 
I  hate  to  see  a  true  boy  in  black,  or  a  devil  in  blue.  But 
here's  my  last  glass  to-night!  I  am  confoundedly  sleepy,  and 
we  rise  early  to-morrow." 

"Right,  Ned,"  said  Tomlinson;  "give  us  a  song  before  you 
retire,  and  let  it  be  that  one  which  Lovett  composed  the  last 
time  we  were  here." 

Ned,  always  pleased  with  an  opportunity  of  displaying  him- 
self, cleared  his  voice  and  complied. 

A  DITTY  FROM  SHERWOOD. 

i. 
"  Laugh  with  us  at  the  prince  and  the  palace, 

In  the  wild  wood-life  there  is  better  cheer  ; 
Would  you  hoard  your  mirth  from  your  neighbor's  malice, 

Gather  it  up  in  our  garners  here. 
Some  kings  their  wealth  from  their  subjects  wring, 

While  by  their  foes  they  the  poorer  wax  ; 
Free  go  the  men  of  the  wise  wood-king, 

And  it  is  only  our  foes  we  tax. 
Leave  the  cheats  of  trade  to  the  shrewd  gude-wife  : 

Let  the  old  be  knaves  at  ease  ; 
Away  with  the  tide  of  that  dashing  life 
Which  is  stirred  by  a  constant  breeze  ! 

n. 
"  Laugh  with  us  when  you  hear  deceiving 

And  solemn  rogues  tell  you  what  knaves  we  be  ; 
Commerce  and  law  have  a  method  of  thieving 

Worse  than  a  stand  at  the  outlaw's  tree. 
Say,  will  the  maiden  we  love  despise 

Gallants  at  least  to  each  other  true  ? 
I  grant  that  we  trample  on  legal  ties, 

But  I  have  heard  that  Love  scorns  them  too. 
Courage,  then, — courage,  ye  jolly  boys, 

Whom  the  fool  with  the  knavish  rates  : 
Oh  !  who  that  is  loved  by  the  world  enjoys 
Half  as  much  as  the  man  it  hates  ?  " 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  289 

"Bravissimo,  Ned!"  cried  Tomlinson,  rapping  the  table; 
"bravissimo!  your  voice  is  superb  to-night,  and  your  song  ad- 
mirable. Really,  Lovett,  it  does  your  poetical  genius  great 
credit;  quite  philosophical,  upon  my  honor." 

"Bravissimo!"  said  Mac  Grawler,  nodding  his  head  awfully. 
"Mr.  Pepper's  voice  is  as  sweet  as  a  bagpipe! — Ah!  such  a 
song  would  have  been  invaluable  to  'The  Asinaeum,'  when  I 
had  the  honor  to — " 

"Be  Vicar  of  Bray  to  that  establishment,"  interrupted 
Tomlinson.  "Pray,  Mac  Grawler,  why  do  they  call  Edin- 
burgh the  Modern  Athens?" 

"Because  of  the  learned  and  great  men  it  produces,"  re- 
turned Mac  Grawler,  with  conscious  pride. 

"Pooh!  pooh! — you  are  thinking  of  ancient  Athens.  Your 
city  is  called  the  modern  Athens,  because  you  are  all  so  like 
the  modern  Athenians, — the  greatest  scoundrels  imaginable, 
unless  travellers  belie  them."  . 

"Nay,"  interrupted  Ned,  who  was  softened  by  the  applause 
of  the  critic,  "Mac  is  a  good  fellow,  spare  him.  Gentlemen, 
your  health.  I  am  going  to  bed,  and  I  suppose  you  will  not 
tarry  long  behind  me." 

"Trust  us  for  that,"  answered  Tomlinson ;  "the  captain  and 
I  will  consult  on  the  business  of  the  morrow,  and  join  you  in  a 
twinkling  of  a  bedpost,  as  it  has  been  shrewdly  expressed." 

Ned  yawned  his  last  "good-night,"  and  disappeared  within 
the  dormitory.  Mac  Grawler  yawning  also,  but  with  a  graver 
yawn,  as  became  his  wisdom,  betook  himself  to  the  duty  of 
removing  the  supper  paraphernalia:  after  bustling  soberly 
about  for  some  minutes,  he  let  down  a  press-bed  in  the  corner 
of  the  cave  (for  he  did  not  sleep  in  the  robbers'  apartment), 
and  undressing  himself,  soon  appeared  buried  in  the  bosom  of 
Morpheus.  But  the  chief  and  Tomlinson,  drawing  their  seats 
nearer  to  the  dying  embers,  defied  the  slothful  god,  and  en- 
tered with  low  tones  into  a  close  and  anxious  commune. 

"So  then,"  said  Augustus,  "now  that  you  have  realized 
sufficient  funds  for  your  purpose,  you  will  really  desert  us, — 
have  you  well  weighed  the  pros  and  cons?  Remember,  that 
nothing  is  so  dangerous  to  our  state  as  reform ;  the  moment  a 
man  grows  honest,  the  gang  forsake  him ;  the  magistrate  misses 
his  fee;  the  informer  peaches ;  and  the  recusant  hangs. " 

"I  have  well  weighed  all  this,"  answered  Clifford,  "and 
have  decided  on  my  course.  I  have  only  tarried  till  my  means 
could  assist  my  will.  With  my  share  of  our  present  and  late 
booty,  I  shall  betake  myself  to  the  Continent.  Prussia  gives 


290  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

easy  trust,  and  ready  promotion,  to  all  who  will  enlist  in  her 
service.  But  this  language,  my  dear  friend,  seems  strange 
from  your  h'ps.  Surely  you  will  join  me  in  my  separation  from 
the  corps?  What!  you  shake  your  head!  Are  you  not  the 
same  Tomlinson  who  at  Bath  agreed  with  me  that  we  were  in 
danger  from  the  envy  of  our  comrades,  and  that  retreat  had 
become  necessary  to  our  safety?  Nay,  was  not  this  your  main 
argument  for  our  matrimonial  expedition?" 

"Why,  look  you,  dear  Lovett, "  said  Augustus,  "we  are  all 
blocks  of  matter,  formed  from  the  atoms  of  custom ;  in  other 
words,  we  are  a  mechanism,  to  which  habit  is  the  spring. 
What  could  I  do  in  an  honest  career?  I  am  many  years  older 
than  you.  I  have  lived  as  a  rogue  till  I  have  no  other  nature 
than  roguery.  I  doubt  if  I  should  not  be  a  coward  were  I  to 
turn  soldier.  I  am  sure  I  should  be  the  most  consummate  of 
rascals  were  I  to  affect  to  be  honest.  No :  I  mistook  myself 
when  I  talked  of  separation.  I  must  e'en  jog  on  with  my  old 
comrades,  and  in  my  old  ways,  till  I  jog  into  the  noose 
hempen — or,  melancholy  alternative,  the  noose  matrimonial!" 

"This  is  mere  folly,"  said  Clifford,  from  whose  nervous  and 
masculine  mind  habits  were  easily  shaken.  "We  have  not  for 
so  many  years  discarded  all  the  servile  laws  of  others,  to  be  the 
abject  slaves  of  our  own  weaknesses.  Come,  my  dear  fellow, 
rouse  yourself.  Heaven  knows,  were  I  to  succumb  to  the 
feebleness  of  my  own  heart,  I  should  be  lost  indeed.  And 
perhaps  wrestle  I  ever  so  stoutly,  I  do  not  wrestle  away  that 
which  clings  within  me,  and  will  kill  me,  though  by  inches. 
But  let  us  not  be  cravens,  and  suffer  fate  to  drown  us  rather 
than  swim.  In  a  word,  fly  with  me  ere  it  be  too  late.  A 
smuggler's  vessel  waits  me  off  the  coast  of  Dorset:  in  three 
Jays  from  this  I  sail.  Be  my  companion.  We  can  both  rein  a 
fiery  horse,  and  wield  a  good  sword.  As  long  as  men  make 
Avar  one  against  another,  those  accomplishments  will  prevent 
their  owner  from  starving,  or — ' 

"If  employed  in  the  field,  not  the  road,"  interrupted  Tom- 
linson, with  a  smile, — "from  hanging.  But  it  cannot-  be!  I 
wish  you  all  joy — all  success  in  your  career:  you  are  young, 
bold,  and  able;  and  you  always  had  a  loftier  spirit  than  I 
have!  Knave  I  am,  and  knave  I  must  be  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter!" 

"As  you  will,"  said  Clifford,  who  was  not  a  man  of  many 
words,  but  he  spoke  with  reluctance:  "if  so,  I  must  seek  my 
fortune  alone." 

"When  do  you  leave  us?"  asked  Tomlinson. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  2QI 

"To-morrow,  before  noon.  I  shall  visit  London  for  a  few 
hours,  and  then  start  at  once  for  the  coast!" 

"London!"  exclaimed  Tomlinson ;  "what,  the  very  den  of 
danger? — Pooh!  you  do  not  know  what  you  say:  or,  do  you 
think  it  filial  to  caress  Mother  Lobkins  before  you  depart?" 

"Not  that,"  answered  Clifford.  "I  have  already  ascer- 
tained that  she  is  above  the  reach  of  all  want ;  and  her  days, 
poor  soul!  cannot,  I  fear,  be  many.  In  all  probability,  she 
would  scarcely  recognize  me ;  for  her  habits  cannot  much  have 
improved  her  memory.  Would  I  could  say  as  much  for  her 
neighbors !  Were  I  to  be  seen  in  the  purlieus  of  low  thievery, 
you  know,  as  well  as  I  do,  that  some  stealer  of  kerchiefs  would 
turn  informer  against  the  notorious  Captain  Lovett." 

"What,  then,  takes  you  to  town?  Ah! — you  turn  away 
your  face. — I  guess!  Well,  Love  has  ruined  many  a  hero  be- 
fore ;  may  you  not  be  the  worse  for  his  godship ! ' ' 

Clifford  did  not  answer,  and  the  conversation  made  a  sudden 
and  long  pause ;  Tomlinson  broke  it. 

"Do  you  know,  Lovett,"  said  he,  "though  I  have  as  little 
heart  as  most  men,  yet  I  feel  for  you  more  than  I  could  have 
thought  it  possible.  I  would  fain  join  you ;  there  is  devilish 
good  tobacco  in  Germany,  I  believe ;  and,  after  all,  there  is  not 
so  much  difference  between  the  life  of  a  thief  and  of  a  soldier ! " 

"Do  profit  by  so  sensible  a  remark,"  said  Clifford.  "Re- 
flect how  certain  of  destruction  is  the  path  you  now  tread :  the 
gallows  and  the  hulks  are  the  only  goals!" 

"The  prospects  are  not  pleasing,  I  allow,"  said  Tomlinson; 
"nor  is  it  desirable  to  be  preserved  for  another  century  in  the 
immortality  of  a  glass  case  in  Surgeon's  Hall,  grinning  from 
ear  to  ear,  as  if  one  had  made  the  merriest  finale  imaginable — 
Well !  I  will  sleep  on  it,  and  you  shall  have  my  answer  to- 
morrow; but  poor  Ned?" 

"Would  he  not  join  us?" 

"Certainly  not:  his  neck  is  made  for  a  rope,  and  his  mind 
for  the  Old  Bailey.  There  is  no  hope  for  him ;  yet  he  is  an 
excellent  fellow.  We  must  not  even  tell  him  of  our  meditated 
desertion." 

"By  no  means.  I  shall  leave  a  letter  to  our  London  chief: 
it  will  explain  all.  And  now  to  bed ;  I  look  to  your  com- 
panionship as  settled." 

"  Humph!"  said  Augustus  Tomlinson. 

So  ended  the  conference  of  the  robbers.  About  an  hour 
after  it  had  ceased,  and  when  no  sound  save  the  heavy  breath 
of  Long  Ned  broke  the  stillness  of  the  night,  the'intelligerit 


292  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

countenance  of  Peter  Mac  Crawler  slowly  elevated  itself  from 
the  lonely  pillow  on  which  it  had  reclined. 

By  degrees  the  back  of  the  sage  stiffened  into  perpendic- 
ularity, .and  he  sat  for  a  few  moments  erect  on  his  seat  of  honor, 
apparently  in  listening  deliberation.  Satisfied  with  the  deep 
silence  that,  save  the  solitary  interruption  we  have  specified, 
reigned  around,  the  learned  disciple  of  Vatel  rose  gently  from 
the  bed, — hurried  on  his  clothes, — stole  on  tiptoe  to  the  door, — 
unbarred  it  with  a  noiseless  hand, — and  vanished.  Sweet 
reader !  while  thou  art  wondering  at  his  absence,  suppose  we 
account  for  his  appearance. 

One  evening,  Clifford  and  his  companion  Augustus  had  been 
enjoying  the  rational  amusement  of  Ranelagh,  and  were  just 
leaving  that  celebrated  place  when  they  were  arrested  by  a 
crowd  at  the  entrance.  That  crowd  were  assembled  round  a 
pickpocket;  and  that  pickpocket — O  virtue! — O  wisdom! — 
O  Asinaeum ! — was  Peter  Mac  Crawler!  We  have  before  said 
that  Clifford  was  possessed  of  a  good  mien  and  an  imposing 
manner,  and  these  advantages  were  at  that  time  especially 
effectual  in  preserving  our  Orbilius  from  the  pump.  No 
sooner  did  Clifford  recognize  the  magisterial  face  of  the  sapi- 
ent Scot,  than  he  boldly  thrust  himself  into  the  middle  of  the 
crowd,  and  collaring  the  enterprising  citizen  who  had  collared 
Mac  Crawler,  declared  himself  ready  to  vouch  for  the  honesty 
of  the  very  respectable  person  whose  identity  had  evidently 
been  so  grossly  mistaken.  Augustus,  probably  foreseeing  some 
ingenious  ruse  of  his  companion's,  instantly  seconded  the  de- 
fence. The  mob,  who  never  descry  any  difference  between 
impudence  and  truth,  gave  way ;  a  constable  came  up — took 
part  with  the  friend  of  two  gentlemen  so  unexceptionally 
dressed — our  friends  walked  off — the  crowd  repented  of  their 
precipitation,  and,  by  way  of  amends,  ducked  the  gentleman 
whose  pockets  had  been  picked.  It  was  in  vain  for  him  to 
defend  himself,  for  he  had  an  impediment  in  his  speech ;  and 
Messieurs  the  mob,  having  ducked  him  once  for  his  guilt, 
ducked  him  a  second  time  for  his  embarrassment. 

In  the  interim,  Clifford  had  withdrawn  his  quondam  Men- 
tor to  the  asylum  of  a  coffee-house ;  and  while  Mac  Crawler's 
soul  expanded  itself  by  wine,  he  narrated  the  causes  of  his 
dilemma.  It  seems  that  that  incomparable  journal  "The  Asi- 
nseum,"  despite  a  series  of  most  popular  articles  upon  the 
writings  of  "Aulus  Prudentius,"  to  which  were  added  an  ex- 
quisite string  of  dialogues,  written  in  a  tone  of  broad  humor, 
viz..  broad  Scotch  (with  Scotchmen  it  is  all  the  same  thing), 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  293 

despite  these  invaluable  miscellanies,  to  say  nothing  of  some 
glorious  political  articles,  in  which  it  was  clearly  proved  to  the 
satisfaction  of  the  rich,  that  the  less  poor  devils  eat,  the  better 
for  their  constitutions, — despite,  we  say,  these  great  acquisi- 
tions to  British  literature,  "The  Asinaeum"  tottered,  fell, 
buried  its  bookseller,  and  crushed  its  author:  Mac  Crawler 
only — escaping,  like  Theodore  from  the  enormous  helmet  of 
Otranto — Mac  Grawler  only  survived.  "Love,"  says  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  "makes  a  man  see  better  than  a  pair  of  spec- 
tacles." Love  of  life  has  a  very  different  effect  on  the  op- 
tics,— it  makes  a  man  wofully  dim  of  inspection,  and  some- 
times causes  him  to  see  his  own  property  in  another  man's 
purse!  This  deceplio  visits,  did  it  impose  upon  Peter  Mac 
Grawler?  He  went  to  Ranelagh.  Reader,  thou  knowest  the  rest ! 

Wine  and  the  ingenuity  of  the  robbers  having  extorted  this 
narrative  from  Mac  Grawler,  the  barriers  of  superfluous  deli- 
cacy were  easily  done  away  with. 

Our  heroes  offered  to  the  sage  an  introduction  to  their  club  ; 
the  offer  was  accepted;  and  Mac  Grawler,  having  been  first 
made  drunk,  was  next  made  a  robber.  The  gang  engaged  him 
in  various  little  matters,  in  which  we  grieve  to  relate  that, 
though  his  intentions  were  excellent,  his  success  was  so  ill  as 
thoroughly  to  enrage  his  employers;  nay,  they  wore  about  at 
one  time,  when  they  wanted  to  propitiate  justice,  to  hand  him 
over  to  the  secular  power,  when  Clifford  interposed  in  his  be- 
half. From  a  robber  the  sage  dwindled  into  a  drudge ;  menial 
offices  (the  robbers,  the  lying  rascals,  declared  that  such  offices 
were  best  fitted  to  the  genius  of  his  country !)  succeeded  to 
noble  exploits,  and  the  worst  of  robbers  became  the  best  of 
cooks.  How  vain  is  all  wisdom  but  that  of  long  experience! 
Though  Clifford  was  a  sensible  and  keen  man, — though  he 
knew  our  sage  to  be  a  knave,  he  never  dreamed  he  could  be 
a  traitor.  He  thought  him  too  indolent  to  be  malicious,  and — 
short-sighted  humanity! — too  silly  to  be  dangerous.  He 
trusted  the  sage  with  the  secret  of  the  cavern ;  and  Augustus, 
who  was  a  bit  of  an  epicure,  submitted,  though  forebodingly, 
to  the  choice,  because  of  the  Scotchman's  skill  in  broiling. 

But  Mac  Grawler,  like  Brutus,  concealed  a  scheming  heart 
under  a  stolid  guise;  the  apprehension  of  the  noted  Lovett  had 
become  a  matter  of  serious  desire ;  the  police  were  no  longer 
to  be  bribed:  nay,  they  were  now  eager  to  bribe;  Mac  Graw- 
ler had  watched  his  time — sold  his  chief,  and  was  now  on  the 
road  to  Reading,  to  meet  and  to  guide  to  the  cavern  Mr.  Nab« 
bem  of  Bow  Street  and  four  of  his  attendants,. 


294  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

Having  tnus,  as  rapidly  as  we  were  able,  traced  the  causes 
which  brought  so  startlingly  "before  your  notice  the  most 
incomparable  of  critics,  we  now,  reader,  return  to  our  rob- 
bers. 

"Hist,  Lovett!"  said  Tomlinson,  half-asleep,  "methought  I 
heard  something  in  the  outer  cave." 

"It  is  the  Scot,  I  suppose,"  answered  Clifford:  "you  saw, 
of  course,  to  the  door?" 

"To  be  sure!"  muttered  Tomlinson,  and  in  two  minutes 
more  he  was  asleep. 

Not  so  Clifford:  many  and  anxious  thoughts  kept  him  waking. 
At  one  while,  when  he  anticipated  the  opening  to  a  new  career, 
somewhat  of  the  stirring  and  high  spirit  which  still  moved 
amidst  the  guilty  and  confused  habits  of  his  mind  made  his 
pulse  feverish,  and  his  limbs  restless:  at  another  time,  an  ago- 
nizing remembrance — the  remembrance  of  Lucy  in  all  her 
charms,  her  beauty,  her  love,  her  tender  and  innocent  heart, — 
Lucy  all  perfect,  and  lost  to  him  forever,  banished  every  other 
reflection,  and  only  left  him  the  sick  sensation  of  despondency 
and  despair.  "What  avails  my  struggle  for  a  better  name?" 
he  thought.  "Whatever  my  future  lot,  she  can  never  share 
it.  My  punishment  is  fixed, — it  is  worse  than  a  death  of 
shame ;  it  is  a  life  without  hope !  Every  moment  I  feel,  and 
shall  feel  to  the  last,  the  pressure  of  a  chain  that  may  never  be 
broken  or  loosened!  And  yet,  fool  that  I  am!  I  cannot 
leave  this  country  without  seeing;  her  again,  without  telling  her, 
that  I  have  really  looked  my  last.  But  have  I  not  twice  told 
her  that?  Strange  fatality!  But  twice  have  I  spoken  to  her 
of  love,  and  each  time  it  was  to  tear  myself  from  her  at  the 
moment  of  my  confession.  And  even  now  something  that  I 
have  no  power  to  resist  compels  me  to  the  same  idle  and  weak 
indulgence.  Does  destiny  urge  me?  Ay,  perhaps  to  my  de- 
struction! Every  hour  a  thousand  deaths  encompass  me.  I 
have  now  obtained  all  for  which  I  seemed  to  linger.  I  have 
won,  by  a  new  crime,  enough  to  bear  me  to  another  land,  and 
to  provide  me  there  a  soldier's  destiny.  I  should  not  lose  an 
hour  in  flight,  yet  I  rush  into  the  nest  of  my  enemies,  only  for 
one  unavailing  word  with  her;  and  this,  .too,  after  I  have  al- 
ready bade  her  farewell!  Is  this  fate?  If  it  be  so,  what  mat- 
ters it?  I  no  longer  care  for  a  life  which,  after  all,  I  should 
reform  in  vain,  if  I  could  not  reform  for  her:  yet — yet,  selfish 
and  lost  that  I  am!  will  it  be  nothing  to  think  hereafter  that 
I  have  redeemed  her  from  the  disgrace  of  having  loved  an  out- 
cast and  a  felon?  If  I  can  obtain  honor,  will  it  not,  in  my  own 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  295 

heart  at  least, — will  it  not  reflect,  however  dimly  and  distantly, 
upon  her?" 

Such,  bewildered,  unsatisfactory,  yet  still  steeped  in  the  col- 
ors of  that  true  love  which  raises  even  the  lowest,  were  the 
midnight  meditations  of  Clifford:  they  terminated,  towards  the 
morning,  in  an  uneasy  and  fitful  slumber.  From  this  he  was 
awakened  by  a  loud  yawn  from  the  throat  of  Long  Ned,  who 
was  always  the  earliest  riser  of  his  set. 

"Holla!"  said  he,  "it  is  almost  daybreak;  and  if  we  want 
to  cash  our  notes,  and  to  move  the  lord's  jewels,  we  should 
already  be  on  the  start." 

"A  plague  on  you!"  said  Tomlinson,  from  under  cover  of 
his  woolen  nightcap  ;  "it  was  but  this  instant  that  I  was  dream- 
ing you  were  going  to  be  hanged,  and  now  you  wake  me  in  the 
pleasantest  part  of  the  dream!" 

"You  be  shot!"  said  Ned,  turning  one  leg  out  of  bed;  "by 
the  by,  you  took  more  than  your  share  last  night,  for  you  owed 
me  three  guineas  for  our  last  game  at  cribbage!  You'll  please 
to  pay  me  before  we  part  to-day:  short  accounts  make  long 
friends!" 

"However  true  that  maxim  may  be,"  returned  Tomlinson,  "I 
know  one  much  truer,  namely — long  friends  will  make  short 
accounts!  You  must  ask  Jack  Ketch  this  day  month  if  I'm 
wrong!" 

"That's  whatj'tfa  call  wit,  I  suppose!"  retorted  Ned,  as  he 
now,  struggling  into  his  inexpressibles,  felt  his  way  into  the 
outer  cave. 

"What,  ho!  Mac!"  cried  he,  as  he  went,  "stir  those  bob- 
bins of  thine,  which  thou  art  pleased  to  call  legs ;  strike  a 
light,  and  be  d — d  to  you!" 

"A  light  for  yoU)"  said  Tomlinson  profanely,  as  he  reluc- 
tantly left  his  couch,  "will  indeed  be  'a  light  to  lighten  the 
Gentiles'!" 

"Why,  Mac — Mac!"  shouted  Ned,  "why  don't  you  an- 
swer!— faith,  I  think  the  Scot's  dead!" 

"Seize  your  men! — yield,  sirs!"  cried  a  stern,  sudden  voice 
from  the  gloom;  and  at  that  instant  two  dark  lanterns  were 
turned,  and  their  light  streamed  full  upon  the  astounded  forms 
of  Tomlinson  and  his  gaunt  comrade!  In  the  dark  shade  of 
the  background  four  or  five  forms  were  also  indistinctly  visible ; 
and  the  ray  of  the  lanterns  glimmered  on  the  blades  of  cutlasses 
and  the  barrels  of  weapons  still  less  easily  resisted. 

Tomlinson  was  the  first  to  recover  his  self-possession.  The 
light  just  gleamed  upon  the  first  step  of  the  stairs  leading  to 


296  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

the  stables,  leaving  the  rest  in  shadow.  He  made  one  stride 
to  the  place  beside,  the  cart,  where,  we  have  said,  lay  some  of 
the  robbers' weapons:  he  had  been  anticipated— the  weapons 
Avere  gone.  The  next  moment  Tomlinson  had  sprung  up  the 
steps. 

' '  Lovett !  — Lovett ! — Lovett ! ' '  shouted  he. 

The  captain,  who  had  followed  his  comrades  into  the  cavern, 
was  already  in  the  grasp  of  two  men.  From  few  ordinary  mor- 
tals, however,  could  any  two  be  selected  as  fearful  odds 
against  such  a  man  as  Clifford ;  a  man  in  whom  a  much  larger 
share  of  sinews  and  muscle  than  is  usually  the  lot  even  of  the 
strong  had  been  hardened,  by  perpetual  exercise,  into  a  con- 
sistency and  firmness  which  linked  power  and  activity  into  a 
union  scarcely  less  remarkable  than  that  immortalized  in  the 
glorious  beauty  of  the  sculptured  gladiator.  His  right  hand  is 
upon  the  throat  of  one  assailant,  his  left  locks-  as  in  a  vice,  the 
wrist  of  the  other ;  you  have  scarcely  time  to  breathe ;  the 
former  is  on  the  ground — the  pistol  of  the  latter  is  wrenched 
from  his  gripe — Clifford  is  on  the  step — a  ball — another — 
whizzes  by  him! — he  is  by  the  side  of  the  faithful  Augustus! 

"Open  the  secret  door!"  whispered  Clifford  to  his  friend; 
"I  will  draw  up  the  steps  alone!" 

Scarcely  had  he  spoken,  before  the  steps  .were  already,  but 
slowly,  ascending  beneath  the  desperate  strength  of  the  rob- 
ber. Meanwhile,  Ned  was  struggling,  as  best  he  might,  with 
two  sturdy  officers,  who  appeared  loath  to  use  their  weapons 
without  an  absolute  necessity,  and  who  endeavored,  by  main 
strength,  to  capture  and  detain  their  antagonist. 

"Look  well  to  the  door!"  cried  the  voice  of  the  principal 
officer,  "and  hang  out  more  light!" 

Two  or  three  additional  lanterns  were  speedily  brought  for- 
ward ;  and  over  the  whole  interior  of  the  cavern  a  dim  but 
sufficient  light  now  rapidly  circled,  giving  to  the  scene  and  to 
the  combatants  a  picturesque  and  wild  appearance! 

The  quick  eye  of  the  head-officer  descried  in  an  instant  the 
rise  of  the  steps,  and  the  advantage  the  robbers  were  thereby 
acquiring.  He  and  two  of  his  men  threw  themselves  forward, 
seized  the  ladder,  if  so  it  may  be  called,  dragged  it  once  more 
to  the  ground,  and  ascended.  But  Clifford,  grasping  with  both 
hands  the  broken  shaft  of  the  cart  that  lay  in  reach,  received 
the  foremost  invader  with  a  salute  that  sent  him  prostrate  and 
senseless  back  among  his  companions.  The  second  shared  the 
same  fate ;  and  the  stout  leader  of  the  enemy,  who,  like  a  true 
general,  had  kept  himself  in  the  rear,  paused  now  in  the  middle 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  2$? 

of  the  steps,  dismayed  alike  by  the  reception  of  his  friends  and 
the  athletic  form  towering  above,  with  raised  weapon  and  men- 
acing attitude.  Perhaps  that  moment  seemed  to  the  judicious 
Mr.  Nabbem  more  favorable  to  parley  than  to  conflict.  He 
cleared  his  throat,  and  thus  addressed  the  foe: 

"You,  sir,  Captain  Lovett,  alias  Howard,  alias  Jackson, 
alias  Cavendish,  alias  Solomons,  alias  Devil,  for  I  knows  you 
well,  and  could  swear  to  you  with  half  an  eye,  in  your  clothes 
or  without:  you  lay  down  your  club  there,  and  let  me  come 
alongside  of  you,  and  you'll  find  me  as  gentle  as  a  lamb;  for 
I've  been  used  to  gemmen  all  my  life,  and  I  knows  how  to 
treat  'em  when  I  has  "em." 

"But  if  I  will  not  let  you  come  alongside  of  me, — what 
then?" 

"Why,  I  must  send  one  of  these  here  pops  through  your 
skull,  that's  all!" 

"Nay,  Mr.  Nabbem,  that  would  be  too  cruel!  You  surely 
would  not  harm  one  who  has  such  an  esteem  for  you?  Don't 
you  remember  the  manner  in  which  I  brought  you  off  from  Jus- 
tice Burnflat,  when  you  were  accused,  you  know  whether 
justly  or — " 

"You're  a  liar,  captain!"  cried  Nabbem,  furiously,  fearful 
that  something  not  meet  for  the  ears  of  his  companions  should 
transpire.  "You  knows  you  are!  Come  down,  or  let  me 
mount;  otherwise  I  won't  be  "sponsible  for  the  conse- 
quences!" 

Clifford  cast  a  look  over  his  shoulder.  A  gleam  of  the  gray 
daylight  already  glimmered  through  a  chink  in  the  secret  door, 
which  Tomlinson  had  now  unbarred,  and  was  about  to  open. 

"Listen  to  me,  Mr.  Nabbem,"  said  he,  "and  perhaps  I  may 
grant  what  you  require !  What  would  you  do  with  me  if  you 
had  me?" 

"You  speaks  like  a  sinsible  man,  now,"  answered  Nabbem; 
"and  that's  after  my  own  heart.  Why,  you  sees,  captain,  your 
time  has  come,  and  you  can't  shilly-shally  any  longer.  You 
have  had  vour  full  swing ;  your  years  are  up,  and  you  must  die 
like  a  man !  But  I  gives  you  my  honor,  as  a  gemman,  that  if 
you  surrenders,  I'll  lake  you  to  the  justice  folks  as  tenderly 
as  if  you  were  made  of  cotton." 

"Give  way  one  moment,"  said  Clifford,  "that  I  may  plant 
the  steps  firmer  for  you." 

Nabbem  retreated  to  the  ground,  and  Clifford,  who  had, 
good-naturedly  enough,  been  unwilling  unnecessarily  to  dam- 
age so  valuable  a  functionary,  lost  not  the  opportunity  now 


298  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

afforded  him.  Down  thundered  the  steps,  clattering  heavily 
among  the  other  officers,  and  falling  like  an  avalanche  on  the 
shoulder  of  one  of  the  arresters  of  Long  Ned. 

Meanwhile,  Clifford  sprang  after  Tomlinson  through  the 
aperture,  and  found  himself — in  the  presence  of  four  officers, 
conducted  by  the  shrewd  Mac  Crawler.  A  blow  from  a  blud- 
geon on  the  right  cheek  and  temple  of  Augustus  felled  that 
hero.  But  Clifford  bounded  over  his  comrade's  body,  dodged 
from  the  stroke  aimed  at  himself,  caught  the  blow  aimed  by 
another  assailant  in  his  open  hand,  wrested  the  bludgeon  from 
the  officer,  struck  him  to  the  ground  with  his  own  weapon,  and 
darting  onward  through  the  labyrinth  of  the  wood  commenced 
his  escape  with  a  step  too  fleet  to  allow  the  hope  of  a  success- 
ful pursuit. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

"  In  short,  Isabella,  I  offer  you  myself  !  " 

"  Heavens  !  "  cried  Isabella,  "  what  do  I  hear?    You,  my  lord  ?" 

— Castle  of  Otranto. 

A  NOVEL  is  like  a  weatherglass,  where  the  man  appears  out  at 
one  time,  the  woman  at  another.  Variable  as  the  atmosphere, 
the  changes  of  our  story  now  re-present  Lucy  to  the  reader. 

That  charming  young  person — who,  it  may  be  remarked,  is 
(her  father  excepted)  the  only  unsophisticated  and  unsullied 
character  in  the  pages  of  a  story  in  some  measure  designed  to 
show,  in  the  depravities  of  character,  the  depravities  of  that 
social  state  wherein  characters  are  formed — was  sitting  alone 
in  her  apartment  at  the  period  in  which  we  return  to  her.  As 
time,  and  that  innate  and  insensible  fund  of  healing,  which 
Nature  has  placed  in  the  bosoms  of  the  young,  in  order  that 
her  great  law,  the  passing  away  of  the  old,  may  not  leave  too 
lasting  and  keen  a  wound,  had  softened  her  first  anguish  at  her 
father's  death,  the  remembrance  of  Clifford  again  resumed  its 
ancient  sway  in  her  heart.  The  loneliness  of  her  life, — the 
absence  of  amusement, — even  the  sensitiveness  and  languor 
which  succeeded  to  grief,  conspired  to  invest  the  image  of  her 
lover  in  a  tenderer  and  more  impressive  guise.  She  recalled 
his  words,  his  actions,  his  letters,  and  employed  herself  whole 
hours,  whole  days  and  nights,  in  endeavoring  to  decipher  their 
mystery.  Who  that  has  been  loved  will  not  acknowledge  the 
singular  and  mighty  force  with  which  a  girl,  innocent  herself, 
clings  to  the  belief  of  innocence  in  her  lover?  In  breasts 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  29$ 

young  and  unacquainted  with  the  world,  there  is  so  pure  a 
credulity  in  the  existence  of  unmixed  good,  so  firm  a  reluc- 
tance to  think  that  where  we  love  there ,can  be  that  which  we 
would  not  esteem,  or  where  we  admire  there  can  be  that  which 
we  ought  to  blame,  that  one  may  almost  deem  it  an  argument 
in  favor  of  our  natural  power  to  attain  a  greater  eminence  in 
virtue,  than  the  habits  and  arts  of  the  existing  world  will  al- 
low us  to  reach.  Perhaps  it  is  not  paradoxical  to  say  that  we 
could  scarcely  believe  perfection  in  others  were  not  the  germ 
of  perfectability  in  our  own  minds!  When  a  man  has  lived 
some  years  among  the  actual  contests  of  faction,  without  im- 
bibing the  prejudice  as  well  as  the  experience,  how  wonder- 
ingly  he  smiles  at  his  worship  of  former  idols! — how  different 
a  color  does  history  wear  to  him! — how  cautious  is  he  now  to 
praise! — how  slow  to  admire! — how  prone  to  cavil!  Human 
nature  has  become  the  human  nature  of  art;  and  he  estimates 
it  not  from  what  it  may  be,  but  from  what,  in  the  corruptions 
of  a  ^emi-civilization,  it  is!  But  in  the  same  manner  as  the 
young  student  clings  to  the  belief  that  the  sage  or  the  minstrel, 
who  has  enlightened  his  reason  or  chained  his  imagination,  is 
in  character  as  in  genius  elevated  above  the  ordinary  herd,  free 
from  the  passions,  the  frivolities,  the  little  meannesses,  and 
the  darkening  vices  which  ordinary  flesh  is  heir  to,  does  a 
woman,  who  loves  for  the  first  time,  cling  to  the  imagined  ex- 
cellence of  him  she  loves !  When  Evelina  is  so  shocked  at  the 
idea  of  an  occasional  fit  of  intoxication  in  her  "noble,  her  un- 
rivalled" lover,  who  does  not  acknowledge  how  natural  were 
her  feelings?  Had  Evelina  been  married  six  years,  and  the 
same  lover,  then  her  husband,  been  really  guilty  of  what  she 
suspected,  who  does  not  feel  that  it  would  have  been  very 
unnatural  to  have  been  shocked  in  the  least  at  the  occurrence ! 
She  would  not  have  loved  him  less,  nor  admired  him  less,  nor 
would  he  have  been  less  "the  noble  and  the  unrivalled, " — 
he  would  have  taken  his  glass  too  much,  have  joked  the  next 
morning  on  the  event,  and  the  gentle  Evelina  would  have  made 
him  a  cup  of  tea;  but  that  which  would  have  been  a  matter 
of  pleasantry  in  the  husband  would  have  been  matter  of  dam- 
nation in  the  lover. — But  to  return  to  Lucy. 

If  it  be  so  hard,  so  repellent  to  believe  a  lover  guilty  even  of  a 
trivial  error,  we  may  readily  suppose  that  Lucy  never  for  a 
moment  admitted  the  supposition  that  Clifford  had  been  really 
guilty  of  gross  error  or  wilful  crime.  True,  that  expressions 
in  his  letter  were  more  than  suspicious ;  but  there  is  always  a 
charm  in  the  candor  of  self-condemnation.  As  it  is  difficult  to 


300  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

believe  the  excellence  of  those  who  praise  themselves,  so  it  is 
difficult  to  fancy  those  criminal  who  condemn !  What,  too,  is 
the  process  of  a  woman's  reasoning?  Alas!  she  is  too  credu- 
lous a  physiognomist.  The  turn  of  a  throat,  with  her,  is  the 
unerring  token  of  nobleness  of  mind ;  and  no  one  can  be  guilty 
of  a  sin  who  is  blest  with  a  beautiful  forehead !  How  fondly, 
how  fanatically  Lucy  loved!  She  had  gathered  together  a 
precious  and  secret  hoard, — a  glove — a  pen — a  book — a  with- 
ered rose-leaf, — treasures  rendered  inestimable  because  he  had 
touched  them:  but  more  than  all,  had  she  the  series  of  his  let- 
ters, from  the  first  formal  note  written  to  her  father,  meant  for 
her,  in  which  he  answered  an  invitation,  and  requested  Miss 
Brandon's  acceptance  of  the  music  she  had  wished  to  have,  to 
the  last  wild  and,  to  her,  inexplicable  letter  in  which  he  had 
resigned  her  forever.  On  those  relics  her  eyes  fed  for  hours; 
and  as  she  pored  over  them,  and  over  thoughts  too  deep  not 
only  for  tears,  but  for  all  utterance  or  conveyance,  you  might 
have  almost  literally  watched  the  fading  of  her  rich  cheek,  and 
pining  away  of  her  rounded  and  elastic  form. 

It  was  just  in  such  a  mood  that  she  was  buried  when  her 
uncle  knocked  at  her  door  for  admittance:  she  hurried  away 
her  treasures,  and  hastened  to  admit  and  greet  him.  "I  have 
come,"  said  he,  smiling,  "to  beg  the  pleasure  of  your  com- 
pany for  an  old  friend  who  dines  with  us  to-day. — But  stay, 
Lucy,  your  hair  is  ill-arranged.  Do  not  let  me  disturb  so  im- 
portant an  occupation  as  your  toilette:  dress  yourself,  my 
love,  and  join  us." 

Lucy  turned,  with  a  suppressed  sigh,  to  the  glass.  The 
uncle  lingered  for  a  few  moments,  surveying  her  with  mingled 
pride  and  doubt ;  he  then  slowly  left  the  chamber. 

Lucy  soon  afterwards  descended  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
beheld,  with  a  little  surprise  (for  she  had  not  had  sufficient 
curiosity  to  inquire  the  name  of  the  guest),  the  slender  form 
and  comely  features  of  Lord  Mauleverer.  The  Earl  ap- 
proached with  the  same  grace  which  had,  in  his  earlier  youth, 
rendered  him  almost  irresistible,  but  which  now,  from  the  con- 
trast of  years  with  manner,  contained  a  slight  mixture  of  the 
comic.  He  paid  his  compliments,  and  in  paying  them,  de- 
clared that  he  must  leave  it  to  his  friend,  Sir  William,  to  ex- 
plain all  the  danger  he  had  dared,  for  the  sake  of  satisfying 
himself  that  Miss  Brandon  was  no  less  lovely  than  when  he 
had  last  beheld  her. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Brandon,  with  a  scarcely  perceptible 
sneer,  "Lord  Mauleverer  has  literally  endured  the  moving 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  301 

accidents  of  flood  and  field — for  he  was  nearly  exterminated 
by  a  highwayman,  and  all  but  drowned  in  a  ditch!" 

"Commend  me  to  a  friend  for  setting  one  off  to  the  best 
advantage,"  said  Mauleverer  gayly.  "Instead  of  attracting 
your  sympathy,  you  see,  Brandon  would  expose  me  to  your 
ridicule:  judge  for  yourself  whether  I  deserve  it  "  ;  and  Maul- 
everer proceeded  to  give,  with  all  the  animation  which  be- 
longed to  his  character,  the  particulars  of  that  adventure  with 
which  the  reader  is  so  well  acquainted.  He  did  not,  we  may 
be  sure,  feel  any  scruple  in  representing  himself  and  his 
prowess  in  the  most  favorable  colors. 

The  story  was  scarcely  ended  when  dinner  was  announced. 
During  that  meal,  Mauleverer  exerted  himself  to  be  amiable, 
with  infinite  address.  Suiting  his  conversation,  more  than  he 
had  hitherto  deigned  to  do,  to  the  temper  of  Lucy,  and  more 
anxious  to  soften  than  to  dazzle,  he  certainly  never  before  ap- 
peared to  her  so  attractive.  We  are  bound  to  add,  that  the 
point  of  attraction  did  not  reach  beyond  the  confession  that  he 
was  a  very  agreeable  old  man. 

Perhaps,  if  there  had  not  been  a  certain  half-melancholy  vein 
in  his  conversation,  possibly  less  uncongenial  to -his  lordship 
from  the  remembrance  of  his  lost  diamonds,  and  the  impres- 
sion that  Sir  William  Brandon's  cook  was  considerably  worse 
than  his  own,  he  might  not  have  been  so  successful  in  pleasing 
Lucy.  As  for  himself,  all  the  previous  impressions  she  had 
made  on  him  returned  in  colors  yet  more  vivid;  even  the  deli- 
cate and  subdued  cast  of  beauty  which  had  succeeded  to  her  ear- 
lier brilliancy,  was  far  more  charming  to  his  fastidious  and  courtly 
taste  than  her  former  glow  of  spirits  and  health.  He  felt  him- 
self very  much  in  love  during  dinner ;  and  after  it  was  over, 
and  Lucy  had  retired,  he  told  Brandon  with  a  passionate  air, 
"that  he  adored  \\\s  niece  to  distraction!" 

The  wilyjudge  affected  to  receive  the  intimation  with  indif- 
ference; but  knowing  that  too  long  an  absence  is  injurious  to 
a  grande  pa ssion,  he  did  not  keep  Mauleverer  very  late  over 
his  wine. 

The  Earl  returned  rapturously  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
besought  Lucy,  in  a  voice  in  which  affectation  seemed  swoon- 
ing with  delight,  to  indulge  him  with  a  song.  More  and  more 
enchanted  by  her  assent,  he  drew  a  music-stool  to  the  harpsi- 
chord, placed  a  chair  beside  her,  and  presently  appeared  lost 
in  transport.  Meanwhile  Brandon,  with  his  back  to  the  pair, 
covered  his  face  with  his  handkerchief,  and,  to  all  appearance, 
yielded  to  the  voluptuousness  of  an  after-dinner  repose. 


302  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

Lucy's  song-book  opened  accidentally  at  a  song  which  had 
been  praised  by  Clifford ;  and  as  she  sang,  her  voice  took  a 
richer  and  more  tender  tone  than  in  Mauleverer's  presence  it 
had  ever  before  assumed. 

THE  COMPLAINT  OF  THE  VIOLETS  WHICH  LOSE  THEIR 
SCENT  IN  MAY. 


In  the  shadow  that  falls  from  the  silent  hill 

We  slept,  in  our  green  retreats  ; 
And  the  April  showers  were  wont  to  fill 
Our  hearts  with  sweets. 

II. 

And  though  we  lay  in  a  lowly  bower. 

Yet  all  things  loved  us  well, 
And  the  waking  bee  left  her  fairest  flower 
With  us  to  dwell. 

in. 

But  the  warm  May  came  in  his  pride  to  woo 
.    The  wealth  of  our  honeyed  store  ; 
And  our  hearts  just  telt  his  breath,  and  knew 
Their  sweets  no  more. 

IV. 

And  the  summer  reigns  on  the  quiet  spot 

Where  we  dwell,  and  its  suns  and  showers 
Bring  balm  to  our  sisters'  hearts,  but  not — 
Ah  !  not  to  ours. 

V. 

We  live,  we  bloom,  but  forever  o'er 

Is  the  charm  of  the  earth  and  sky  ; 
To  our  life,  ye  heavens,  that  balm  restore, 
Or — bid  us  die  ! 

As  with  eyes  suffused  with  many  recollections,  and  a  voice 
which  melted  away  in  an  indescribable  and  thrilling  pathos, 
Lucy  ceased  her  song,  Mauleverer,  charmed  out  of  himself, 
gently  took  her  hand,  and,  holding  the  soft  treasure  in  his 
own,  scarcely  less  soft,  he  murmured: 

"Angel!  sing  on.  Life  would  be  like  your  own  music,  if  I 
could  breathe  it  away  at  your  feet!"' 

There  had  been  a  time  when  Lucy  would  have  laughed  out- 
right at  this  declaration  ;  and,  even  as  it  was,  a  suppressed  and 
half-arch  smile  played  in  the  dimples  of  her  beautiful  mouth, 
and  bewitchingly  contrasted  the  swimming  softness  of  her  eyes, 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  30$ 

Drawing  rather  an  erroneous  omen  from  the  smile,  Maul- 
everer  rapturously  continued,  still  detaining  the  hand  which 
Lucy  endeavored  to  extricate : 

"Yes,  enchanting  Miss  Brandon!  I  who  have  for  so  many 
years  boasted  of  my  invulnerable  heart,  am  subdued  at  last.  I 
have  long,  very  long,  struggled  against  my  attachment  to  you. 
Alas !  it  is  in  vain ;  and  you  behold  me  now  utterly  at  your 
mercy.  Make  me  the  most  miserable  of  men,  or  the  most 
enviable.  Enchantress,  speak!" 

"Really,  my  lord,"  said  Lucy,  hesitating,  yet  rising,  and 
freeing  herself  from  his  hand,  "I  feel  it  difficult  to  suppose 
you  serious ;  and,  perhaps,  this  is  merely  a  gallantry  to  me,  by 
way  of  practice  on  others." 

"Sweet  Lucy,  if  I  may  so  call  you,"  answered  Mauleverer, 
with  an  ardent  gaze,  "do  not,  I  implore  you,  even  for  a  mo- 
ment, affect  to  mistake  me!  do  not  for  a  moment  jest  at  what, 
to  me,  is  the  bane  or  bliss  of  life!  Dare  I  hope  that  my  hand 
and  heart,  which  I  now  offer  you,  are  not  deserving  of  your 
derision?" 

Lucy  gazed  on  her  adorer  with  a  look  of  serious  inquiry ; 
Brandon  still  appeared  to  sleep. 

"If  you  are  in  earnest,  my  lord,"  said  Lucy,  after  a  pause, 
"I  am  truly  and  deeply  sorry;  for  the  friend  of  my  uncle  I 
shall  always  have  esteem:  believe  me  that  I  am  truly  sensible 
of  the  honor  you  render  me,  when  I  add  rny  regret,  that  I  can 
have  no  other  sentiment  than  esteem." 

A  blank  and  puzzled  bewilderment,  for  a  .moment,  clouded 
the  expressive  features  of  Mauleverer, — it  passed  away. 

"How  sweet  is  your  rebuke!"  said  he.  "Yes!  I  do  not 
yet  deserve  any  other  sentiment  than  esteem:  you  are  not  to  be 
won  .precipitately ;  .a  long  trial, — a  long  course  of  attentions, — 
a  long  knowledge  of  my  devoted  and  ardent  love,  alone  will 
entitle  me  to  hope  for  a  warmer  feeling  in  your  breast.  Fix 
then  your  own  time  of  courtship,  angelic  Lucy!  a  week,— nay, 
a  month! — -till  then,  I  will  not  even  press  you  to  appoint  that 
day,  which  to  me  will  be  the  whitest  of  my  life!" 

"My  lord!"  said  Lucy,  smiling  now  no  longer  half  archly, 
"you  must  pardon  me  for  believing  your  proposal  can  be  noth- 
ing but  a  jest;  but  here,  I  beseech  you,  let  it  rest  forever;  do 
not  mention  this  subject  to  me  again." 

"By  heavens!"  cried  Mauleverer,  "this  is  too  cruel. — Bran- 
don, intercede  for  me  with  your  niece." 

Sir  William  started,  naturally  enough,  from  his  slumber,  and 
Mauleverer  continued: . 


304  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

"Yes,  intercede  for  me;  you,  my  oldest  friend,  be  my 
greatest  benefactor!  I  sue  to  your  niece, — she  affects  to  dis- 
believe,— will  you  convince  her  of  my  truth,  my  devotion,  my 
worship?" 

"Disbelieve  you!"  said  the  bland  judge,  with  the  same  se- 
cret sneer  that  usually  lurked  in  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  "I 
do  not  wonder  that  she  is  slow  to  credit  the  honor  you  have 
done  her,  and  for  which  the  noblest  damsels  in  England  have 
sighed  in  vain.  Lucy,  will  you  be  cruel  to  Lord  Mauleverer? 
Believe  me,  he  has  often  confided  to  me  his  love  for  you ;  and 
if  the  experience  of  some  years  avails,  there  is  not  a  question 
of  his  honor  and  his  truth:  I  leave  his  fate  in  your  hands." 

Brandon  turned  to  the  door. 

"Stay,  dear  sir,"  said  Lucy,  "and,  instead  of  interceding 
for  Lord  Mauleverer,  intercede  for  me."  Her  look  now  set- 
tled into  a  calm  and  decided  seriousness  of  expression.  "I 
feel  highly  flattered  by  his  lordship's1  proposal,  which,  as  you 
say,  I  might  well  doubt  to  be  gravely  meant.  I  wish  him  all 
happiness  with  a  lady  of  higher  deserts ;  but  I  speak  from  an 
unalterable  determination,  when  I  say  that  I  can  never  accept 
the  dignity,  with  which  he  would  invest  me." 

So  saying,  Lucy  walked  quickly  to  the  door,  and  vanished, 
leaving  the  two  friends  to  comment  as  they  would  upon  her 
conduct. , 

"You  have  spoilt  all  with  your  precipitation,"  said  the 
uncle. 

"Precipitation!  d — n  it,  what  would  you  have?  I  have 
been  fifty  years  making  up  my  mind  to  marry ;  and  now,  when 
I  have  not  a  day  to  lose,  you  talk  of  precipitation!"  answered 
the  lover,  throwing  himself  into  an  easy-chair. 

"But  you  have  not  been  fifty  years  making  up  your  mind  to 
marry  my  niece,"  said  Brandon  dryly. 

"To  be  refused — postively  refused,  by  a  country  girl!"  con- 
tinued Mauleverer,  soliloquizing  aloud;  "and  that  tod  at  my 
age,  and  with  all  my  experience — a  country  girl  without  rank, 
ton,  accomplishments!  By  Heavens!  I  don't  care  if  all  the 
world  heard  it, — for  not  a  soul  in  the  world  would  ever 
believe  it." 

Brandon  sat  speechless,  eyeing  the  mortified  face  of  the  cour- 
tier with  a  malicious  complacency,  and  there  was  a  pause  of 
several  minutes.  Sir  William  then,  mastering  the  strange  feel- 
ing which  made  him  always  rejoice  in  whatever  threw  ridicule 
on  his/VvVtt/,  approached,  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  Mauleverer's 
shoulder,  and  talked  to  him  of  comfort  and  of  encouragement. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD. 


The  reader  will  believe  that  Mauleverer  was  not  a  man  whom 
it  was  impossible  to  encourage. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"  Before  he  came,  everything  loved  me,  and  I  had  more  things  to  love 
than  I  could  reckon  by  the  hairs  of  my  head.  Now,  I  feel  I  can  love  but 
one,  and  that  one  has  deserted  me. 

******* 

"  Well,  be  it  so — let  her  perish,  let  her  be  anything  but  mine." 

— Melmotk. 

EARLY  the  next  morning,  Sir  William  Brandon  was  closeted 
for  a  long  time  with  his  niece,  previous  to  his  departure  to  the 
duties  of  his  office.  Anxious  and  alarmed  for  the  success  of 
one  of  the  darling  projects  of  his  ambition,  he  spared  no  art  in 
his  conversation  with  Lucy,  that  his  great  ingenuity  of  elo- 
quence and  wonderful  insight  into  human  nature  could  suggest, 
in  order  to  gain  at  least  a  foundation  for  the  raising  of  his 
scheme.  Among  other  resources  of  his  worldly  tact,  he  hinted 
at  Lucy's  love  for  Clifford;  and  (though  darkly  and  subtly,  as 
befitting  the  purity  of  the  one  he  addressed)  this  abandoned  and 
wily  person  did  not  scruple  to  hint  also  at  the  possibility  of 
indulging  that  love  after  marriage;  though  he  denounced,  as 
the  last  of  indecorums,  the  crime  of  encouraging  it  before. 
This  hint,  however,  fell  harmless  upon  the  innocent  ear  of 
Lucy.  She  did  not,  in  the  remotest  degree,  comprehend  its 
meaning;  she  only,  with  a  glowing  cheek1  and  a  pouting  lip,  re- 
sented the  allusion  to  a  love  which  she  thought  it  insolent  in 
any  one  even  to  suspect. 

When  Brandon  left  the  apartment,  his  brow  was  clouded, 
and  his  eye  absent  and  thoughtful :  it  was  evident  that  there 
had  been  little  in  the  conference  with  his  niece  to  please  or 
content  him.  Miss  Brandon  herself  was  greatly  agitated:  for 
there  was  in  her  uncle's  nature  that  silent  and  impressive  se- 
cret of  influencing  or  commanding  others,  which  almost  so  in- 
variably, and  yet  so  quietly,  attains  the  wishes  of  its  owner; 
and  Lucy,  who  loved  and  admired  him  sincerely — not  the  less, 
perhaps,  for  a  certain  modicum  of  fear — was  greatly  grieved  at 
perceiving  how  rooted  in  him  was  the  desire  of  that  marriage 
which  she  felt  was  a  moral  impossibility.  But  if  Brandon  pos- 
sessed the  secret  of  sway,  Lucy  was  scarcely  less  singularly  en- 
dowed with  the  secret  of  resistance.  It  may  be  remembered, 


306  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

in  describing  her  character,  that  we  spoke  of  her  as  one  who 
seemed,  to  the  superficial,  as  of  too  yielding  and  soft  a  temper. 
But  circumstances  gave  the  lie  to  manner,  and  proved  that  she 
eminently  possessed  a  quiet  firmness  and  latent  resolution,  which 
gave  to  her  mind  a  nobleness  and  trustworthy  power,  that 
never  would  have  been  suspected  by  those  who  met  her  among 
the  ordinary  paths  of  life. 

Brandon  had  not  been  long  gone,  when  Lucy's  maid  came 
to  inform  her  that  a  gentleman,  who  expressed  himself  very  de- 
sirous of  seeing  her,  waited  below.  The  blood  rushed  from 
Lucy's  cheek  at  this  announcement,  simple  as  it  seemed.  "What 
gentleman  could  be  desirous  of  seeing  her.  Was  it — was  it 
Clifford?"  She  remained  for  some  moments  motionless,  and 
literally  unable  to  move ;  at  length  she  summoned  courage,  and 
smiling  with  self-contempt  at  a  notion  which  appeared  to  her 
after  thoughts  utterly  absurd,  she  descended  to  the  drawing- 
room.  The  first  glance  she  directed  towards  the  stranger,  who 
stood  by  the  fireplace  with  folded  arms,  was  sufficient, — it  was 
impossible  to  mistake,  though  the  face  was  averted,  the  un- 
equalled form  of  her  lover.  She  advanced  eagerly  with  a 
faint  cry,  checked  herself,  and  sank  upon  the  sofa. 

Clifford  turned  towards  her,  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her 
countenance  with  an  intense  and  melancholy  gaze,  but  he  did 
not  utter  a  syllable;  and  Lucy,  after  pausing  in  expectation 
of  his  voice,  looked  up,  and  caught,  in  alarm,  the  strange  and 
peculiar  aspect  of  his  features.  He  approached  her  slowly, 
and  still  silent ;  but  his  gaze  seemed  to  grow  more  earnest  and 
mournful  as  he  advanced. 

"Yes,"  said  he  at  last,  in  a  broken  and  indistinct  voice,  "  I 
see  you  once  more,  after  all  my  promises  to  quit  you  for  ever, — 
after  my  solemn  farewell,  after  all  tha,t  I  have  cost  you :  for, 
Lucy,  you  love  me, — you  love  me, — and  I  shudder  while  I  feel 
it ;  after  all  I  myself  have  borne  and  resisted,  I  once  more  come 
wilfully  into  your  presence!  How  have  I  burnt  and  sickened 
for  this  moment!  How  have  I  said, 'Let  me  behold  her  once 
more — only  once  more,  and  Fate  may  then  do  her  worst ! ' 
Lucy !  dear,  dear  Lucy !  forgive  me  for  my  weakness.  It  is 
now  in  bitter  and  stern  reality  the  very  last  lean  be  guilty  of !" 

As  he  spoke,  Clifford  sank  beside  her.  He  took  both  her 
hands  in  his,  and  holding  them,  though  without  pressure,  again 
looked  passionately  upon  her  innocent  yet  eloquent  face.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  were  moved  beyond  all  the  ordinary  feelings  of 
reunion  and  of  love.  He  did  not  attempt  to  kiss  the  hands  he 
held ;  and  though  the  touch  thrilled  through  every  vein  and 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  $O? 

fibre  of  his  frame,  his  clasp  was  as  light  as  that  in  which  the 
first  timidity  of  a  boy's  love  ventures  to  stamp  itself! 

"You  are  pale,  Lucy,"  said  he  mournfully,  "and  your  cheek 
is  much  thinner  than  it  was  when  I  first  saw  you — when  I  first 
saw  you  !  Ah !  would  for  your  sake  that  that  had  never  been ; 
Your  spirits  were  light  then,  Lucy.  Your  laugh  came  from,  the 
heart, — your  step  spurned  the  earth.  Joy  broke  from  your 
eyes,  everything  that  breathed  around  you  seemed  full  of  hap- 
piness and  mirth !  and  now,  look  upon  me,  Lucy  ;  lift  those 
soft  eyes,  and  teach  them  to  flash  upon  me  indignation  and 
contempt!  Oh,  not  thus,  not  thus!  I  could  leave  you  happy, — 
yes,  literally  blest, — if  I  could  fancy  you  less  forgiving,  less 
gentle,  less  angelic ! " 

"What  have  I  to  forgive?"  said  Lucy  tenderly. 

"What!  everything  for  which  one  human  being  can  pardon 
another.  Have  not  deceit  and  injury  been  my  crimes  against 
you?  Your  peace  of  mind,  your  serenity  of  heart,  your  buoy- 
ancy of  temper,  have  I  marred  these  or  not?" 

"Oh,  Clifford!"  said  Lucy,  rising  from  herself  and  from 
selfish  thoughts,  '  'why, — -why  will  you  not  trust  me?  You  do  not 
know  me,  indeed  you  do  not — you  are  ignorant  even  of  the 
very  nature  of  a  woman,  if  you  think  me  unworthy  of  your  con- 
fidence! Do  you  believe  I  could  betray  it?  or  do  you  think 
that,  if  you  had  done  that  for  which  all  the  world  forsook  you, 
/could  forsake?" 

Lucy's  voice  faltered  at  the  last  words ;  but  it  sank  as  a  stone 
sinks  into  deep  waters,  to  the  very  core  of  Clifford's  heart. 
Transported  from  all  resolution  and  aU-forbearance,  he  wound  his 
arms  around  her  in  one  long  and  impassioned  caress ;  and  Lucy, 
as  her  breath  mingled  with  his,  and  her  cheek  drooped  upon 
his  bosom,  did  indeed  feel  as  if  the  past  could  contain  no  se- 
cret powerful  enough  even  to  weaken  the  affection  with  which 
her  heart  clung  to  his.  She  was  the  first  to  extricate  herself 
from  their  embrace.  She  drew  back  her  face  from  his,  and 
smiling  on  him  through  her  tears,  with  a  brightness  that  the 
smiles  of  her  earliest  youth  had  never  surpassed,  she  said : 

"Listen  to  me.  Tell  me  your  history  or  not,  as  you  will. 
But  believe  me,  a  woman's  wit  is  often  no  despicable  coun- 
sellor. They  who  accuse  themselves  the  most  bitterly,  are  not 
often  those  whom  it  is  most  difficult  to  forgive;  and  you  must 
pardon  me,  if  I  doubt  the  extent  of  the  blame  you  would  so 
lavishly  impute  to  yourself.  I  am  now  alone  in  the  world — 
(here  the  smile  withered  from  Lucy's  lips). — My  poor  father 
is  dead.  I  can  injure  no  one  by  my  conduct ;  there  is  no  one 


3o3  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

on  earth  to  whom  I  am  bound  by  duty.  I  am  independent, 
I  am  rich.  You  profess  to  love  me.  I  am  foolish  and  vain, 
and  I  believe  you.  Perhaps,  also,  I  have  the  fond  hope  which 
so  often  makes  dupes  of  women — the  hope,  that,  if  you  hav& 
erred,  I  may  reclaim  you;  if  you  have  been  unfortunate, 
I  may  console  you  !  I  know,  Mr.  Clifford,  that  I  am  saying 
that  for  which  many  would  despise  me,  and  for  which,  per- 
haps, I  ought  to  despise  myself;  but  there  are  times  when  we 
speak  only  as  if  some  power  at  our  hearts  constrained  us,  de- 
spite ourselves, — and  it  is  thus  that  I  have  now  spoken  to  you." 

It  was  with  an  air  very  unwonted  to  herself  that  Lucy  had 
concluded  her  address,  for  her  usual  characteristic  was  rather 
softness  than  dignity ;  but,  as  if  to  correct  the  meaning  of  her 
words,  which  might  otherwise  appear  unmaidenly,  there  was 
a  chaste,  a  proud,  yet  not  the  less  a  tender  and  sweet  propriety 
and  dignified  frankness  in  her  look  and  manner;  so  that  it 
would  have  been  utterly  impossible  for  one  who  heard  her  not 
to  have  done  justice  to  the  nobleness  of  her  motives,  or  not  to 
have  felt  both  touched  and  penetrated,  as  much  by  respect  as 
by  any  warmer  or  more  familiar  feeling. 

Clifford,  who  had  risen  while  she  was  speaking,  listened  with 
a  countenance  that  varied  at  every  word  she  uttered :  now  all 
hope — now  all  despondency.  As  she  ceased,  the  expression 
hardened  into  a  settled  and  compulsive  resolution. 

"It  is  well!"  said  he  mutteringly.  "I  am  worthy  of  this — 
very — very  worthy!  Generous,  noble  girl! — had  I  been  an 
emperor,  I  would  have  bowed  down  to  you  in  worship ;  but  to 
debase,  to  degrade  you-^-wo !  no ! " 

"Is  there  debasement  in  love?"  murmured  Lucy. 

Clifford  gazed  upon  her  with  a  sort  of  enthusiastic  and  self- 
gratulatory  pride ;  perhaps  he  felt  to  be  thus  loved,  and  by  such 
a  creature,  was  matter  of  pride  even  in  the  lowest  circumstances 
to  which  he  could  ever  be  exposed.  He  drew  his  breath  hard, 
set  his  teeth,  and  answered : 

"You  could  love,  then,  an  outcast,  without  birth,  fortune,  or 
character? — No!  you  believe  this  now,  but  you  could  not. 
Could  you  desert  your  country,  your  friends,  and  your  home — 
all  that  you  are  born  and  fitted  for? — Could  you  attend  one 
over  whom  the  sword  hangs,  through  a  life  subjected  every 
hour  to  discovery  and  disgrace? — Could  you  be  subjected  your- 
self to  the  moodiness  of  an  evil  memory,  and  the  gloomy  silence 
of  remorse? — Could  you  be  the  victim  of  one  who  has  no  merit 
but  his  love  for  you,  and  who,  if  that  love  destroy  you,  becomes 
littefty  redeemed?  Yes,  Lucy,  I  was  wrong — I  will  do  you 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  3<5<) 

justice :  all  this,  nay  more,  you  could  bear,  and  your  generous 
nature  would  disdain  the  sacrifice !  But  am  /  to  be  all  selfish, 
and  you  all  devoted?  Are  you  to  yield  everything  to  me,  and  / 
to  accept  everything  and  yield  none? — Alas!  I  have  but  one 
good,  one  blessing  to  yield,  and  that  is  yourself.  Lucy,  I  de- 
serve you  ;  I  outdo  you  in  generosity :  all  that  you  would  desert 
for  me  is  nothing — O  God! — nothing  to  the  sacrifice  I  make 
to  you! — And  now,  Lucy,  I  have  seen  you,  and  I  must  once 
more  bid  you  farewell :  I  am  on  the  eve  of  quitting  this  country 
forever.  I  shall  enlist  in  a  foreign  service.  Perhaps— (and 
Clifford's  dark  eyes  flashed  with  fire) — you  will  yet  hear  of 
me,  and  not  blush  when  you  hear!  But — (and  his  voice  fal- 
tered, for  Lucy,  hiding  her  face  with  both  hands,  gave  way  to 
her  tears  and  agitation) — but,  in  one  respect,  you  have  con- 
quered. I  had  believed  that  you  could  never  be  mine — that 
my  past  life  had  forever  deprived  me  of  that  hope!  I  now  be- 
gin, with  a  rapture  that  can  bear  me  through  all  ordeals,  to  form  a 
more  daring  vision.  A  soil  may  be  effaced — an  evil  name  may 
be  redeemed — the  past  is  not  set  and  sealed,  without  the  power 
of  revoking  what  has  been  written.  If  I  can  win  the  right  of 
meriting  your  mercy,!  will  throw  myself  on  it  without  reserve; 
till  then,  or  till  death,  you  will  see  me  no  more!" 

He  dropped  on  his  knee,  left  his  kiss  and  his  tears  upon 
Lucy's  cold  hand;  the  next  moment  she  heard  his  step  on  the 
stairs, — the  door  closed  heavily  and  jarringly  upon  him, — and 
Lucy  felt  one  bitter  pang,  and,  for  some  time  at  least,  she  felt 
no  more! 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"  Many  things  fall  between  the  cup  and  the  lip  ! 

Your  man  does  please  me 
With  his  conceit. 

***** 
Comes  Chanon  Hugh  accoutred  as  you  see, 
Disguised  ! 

And  thus  am  I  to  gull  the  constable  ? 
Now  have  among  you  for  a  man-at-arms. 

***** 
High-constable  was  more,  though 
He  laid  Dick  Tator  by  the  heels. 

— BEN  JQNSON  :   Tale  of  a  Tub. 

MEANWHILE,  Clifford  strode  rapidly  through  the  streets  which 
surrounded  the  judge's  house  and,  turning  to  an  obscurer  quar- 
tier  of  the  town,  entered  a  gloomy  lane  or  alley.  Here  he  was 


jtO  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

abruptly  accosted  by  a  man  wrapped  in  a  shaggy  great-coat, 
and  of  somewhat  a  suspicious  appearance: 

"Aha,  captain!"  said  he,  "you  are  beyond  your  time,  but 
all's  well!" 

Attempting,  with  indifferent  success,  the  easy  self-possession 
which  generally  marked  his  address  to  his  companions,  Clif- 
ord,  repeating  the  stranger's  words,  replied: 

"All's  well!' — what!   are  the  prisoners  released?" 

"No,  faith!"  answered  the  man,  with  a  rough  laugh,  "not 
yet ;  but  all  in  good  time ;  it  is  a  little  too  much  to  expect  the 
justices  to  do  our  work,  though,  by  the  Lord  Harry,  we 
often  do  theirs!" 

"What  then?"  asked  Clifford  impatiently. 

"Why,  the  poor  fellows  had  been  carried  to  the  town  of , 

and  brought,  before  the  queer  cuffin*  ere  I  arrived,  though  I 
set  off  the  moment  you  told  me,  and  did  the  journey  in  four 
hours.  The  examination  lasted  all  yesterday,  and  they  were 
remanded  till  to-day :  let's  see,  it  is  not  yet  noon  ;  we  may  be 
there  before  it's  over." 

"And  this  is  what  you  call  well!"  said  Clifford  angrily! 

"No,  captain,  don't  be  glimflashey!  you  have  not  heard  all 
yet! — it  seems  that  the  only  thing  buffed  hard  against  them  was 
by  a  stout  grazier,  who  was  cried  'Stand!'  to,  some  fifty  miles 
off  the  town ;  so  the  queer  cuffin  thinks  of  sending  the  poor 
fellows  to  the  gaol  of  the  county  where  they  did  the  business!" 

"Ah!  that  may  leave  some  hopes  for  them! — We  must  look 
sharp  to  their  journey;  if  they  once  get  to  prison,  their  only 
chances  are  the  file  and  the  bribe.  Unhappily,  neither  of  them 
is  so  lucky  as  myself  at  that  trade!" 

"No,  indeed,  there  is  not  a  stone  wall  in  England  that  the 
great  Captain  Lovett  could  not  creep  through,  I'll  swear!"  said 
the  admiring  satellite. 

"Saddle  the  horses  and  load  the  pistols! — I  will  join  you  in 
ten  minutes.  Have  my  farmer's  dress  ready,  the  false  hair,  etc. 
Choose  your  own  trim.  Make  haste;  the  Three  Feathers 
is  the  house  of  meeting." 

"And  in  ten  minutes  only,    captain?" 

"Punctually!" 

"The  stranger  turned  a  corner,  and  was  out  of  sight.  Clif- 
ord,  muttering — "Yes,  /was  the  cause  of  their  apprehension; 
it  was  I  who  was  sought ;  it  is  but  fair  that  I  should  strike  a 
blow  for  their  escape,  before  I  attempt  my  own," — continued 
his  course  till  he  came  to  the  door  of  a  public-house.  The 

*  Magistrate. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  31 1 

sign  of  a  seaman  swung  aloft,  portraying  the  jolly  tar  with  a 
fine  pewter  pot  in  his  hand,  considerably  huger  than  his  own 
circumference.  An  immense  pug  sat  at  the  door  lolling  its 
tongue  out,  as  if,  having  stuffed  itself  to  the  tongue,  it  was 
forced  to  turn  that  useful  member  out  of  its  proper  place. 
The  shutters  were  half  closed,  but  the  sounds  of  coarse  mer- 
riment issued  jovially  forth. 

Clifford  disconcerted  the  pug;  and,  crossing  the  threshold, 
cried,  in  a  loud  tone,  "Janseen!" — "Here!"  answered  a  gruff 
voice ;  and  Clifford,  passing  on,  came  to  a  small  parlor  adjoin- 
ing the  tap.  There,  seated  by  a  round  oak-table,  he  found 
mine  host,  a  red,  fierce,  weatherbeaten,  but  bloated-looking 
personage,  like  Dirk  Hatteraick  in  a  dropsy. 

"How  now,  captain!"  cried  he,  in  a  guttural  accent,  and  in- 
terlarding his  discourse  with  certain  Dutch  graces,  which,  with 
our  reader's  leave,  we  will  omit,  as  being  unable  to  spell  them: 
"how  now! — not  gone  yet!" 

"No! — I  start  for  the  coast  to-morrow ;  business  keeps  me  to- 
day. I  came  to  ask  if  Mellon  may  be  fully  depended  on?" 

"Ay — honest  to  the  back-bone." 

"And  you  are  sure  that,  in  spite  of  my  late  delays,  he  will 
not  have  left  the  village?" 

"Sure! — what  else  can  I  be? — don't  I  know  Jack  Mellon  these 
twenty  years !  He  would  lie  like  a  log  in  a  calm  for  ten  months 
together,  without  moving  a  hair's  breadth,  if  he  was  under 
orders." 

"And  his  vessel  is  swift  and  well  manned,  in  case  of  an 
officer's  chase?" 

"The  Black  Molly   swift? — rAsk  your  grandmother.     The 
Black  Molly  would  outstrip  a  shark." 

"Then  good-by,  Janseen;  there  is  something  to  keep  your 
pipe  alight :  we  shall  not  meet  within  the  three  seas  again,  I 
think.  England  is  as  much  too  hot  for  me  as  Holland  for 
you!" 

"You  are  a  capital  fellow!"  cried  mine  host,  shaking 
Clifford  by  the  hand;  "and  when  the  lads  come  to  know  their 
loss,  they  will  know  they  have  lost  the  bravest  and  truest  gill 
that  ever  took  to  the  toby;  so,  good-by  and  bed — d  to  you!" 

With  this  valedictory  benediction,  mine  host  released  Clifford ; 
and  the  robber  hastened  to  his  appointment  at  the  Three 
Feathers. 

He  found  all  prepared.  He  hastily  put  on  his  disguise,  and 
his  follower  led  out  his  horse,  a  noble  animal  of  the  grand  Irish 
breed,  of  remarkable  strength  and  bone,  and,  save  only  that  it 


312  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

was  somewhat  sharp  in  the  quarters  (a  fault  which  they  who 
look  for  speed  as  well  as  grace  will  easily  forgive),  of  almost 
unequalled  beauty  in  its  symmetry  and  proportions.  Well  did 
the  courser  know,  and  proudly  did  it  render  obeisance  to  its 
master;  snorting  impatiently,  and  rearing  from  the  hand  of  the 
attendant  robber,  the  sagacious  animal  freed  itself  of  the  rein, 
and,  as  it  tossed  its  long  mane  in  the  breeze  of  the  fresh  air, 
came  trotting  to  the  place  where  Clifford  stood. 

"So  ho,  Robin! — so  ho! — what,  thou  chafest  that  I  have  left 
thy  fellow  behind  at  the  Red  Cave.  Him  we  may  never  see 
more.  But,  while  I  have  life,  I  will  not  leave  t/iee,  Robin!" 

With  these  words,  the  robber  fondly  stroked  the  shining  neck 
of  his  favorite  steed ;  and  as  the  animal  returned  the  caress,  by 
rubbing  his  head  against  the  hands  and  the  athletic  breast  of 
its  master,  Clifford  felt  at  his  heart  somewhat  of  that  old  racy 
stir  of  the  blood  which  had  been  once  to  him  the  chief  charm 
of  his  criminal  profession,  and  which,  in  the  late  change  of  his 
feelings,  he  had  almost  forgotten. 

"Well,  Robin,  well,"  he  renewed,  as  he  kissed  the  face  of 
his  steed, — "well,  we  will  have  some  days  like  our  old  ones 
yet;  thou  shalt  say,  ha!  ha!  to  the  trumpet,  and  bear  thy  mas- 
ter along  on  more  glorious  enterprises  than  he  has  yet  thanked 
thee  for  sharing.  Thou  wilt  now  be  my  only  familiar, — my 
only  fjiend,  Robin ;  we  two  shall  be  strangers  in  a  foreign  land. 
But  thou  wilt  make  thyself  welcome  easier  than  thy  lord,  Rob- 
in ;  and  thou  wilt  forget  the  old  days,  and  thine  old  comrades, 
and  thine  old  loves,  when — ha!"  and  Clifford  turned  abruptly 
to  his  attendant,  who  addressed  him,  "It  is  late,  you  say?  true! 
Look  you,  it  will  be  unwise  for  us  both  to  quit  London  together ; 
you  know  the  sixth  milestone,  join  me  there,  and  we  can  pro.- 
ceed  in  company!" 

Not  unwilling  to  linger  fora  parting-cup,  the  comrade  as- 
sented to  the  prudence  of  the  plan  proposed ;  and,  after  one 
or  two  additional  words  of  caution  and  advice,  Clifford 
mounted  and  rode  from  the  yard  of  the  inn.  As  he  passed 
through  the  tall  wooden  gates  into  the  street,  the  imperfect 
gleam  of  the  wintry  sun  falling  over  himself  and  his  steed,  it 
was  scarcely  possible,  even  in  spite  of  his  disguise  and  rude 
garb,  to  conceive  a  more  gallant  and  striking  specimen  of  the 
lawless  and  daring  tribe  to  which  he  belonged ;  the  height, 
strength,  beauty,  and  exquisite  grooming  visible  in  the  steed ; 
the  sparkling  eye,  the  bold  profile,  the  sinewy  chest,  the  grace- 
ful limbs,  and  the  careless  and  practised  horsemanship  of  the 
rider. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  313 

Looking  after  his  chief  with  a  long  and  admiring  gaze,  the 
robber  said  to  the  ostler  of  the  inn,  an  aged  and  withered  man, 
who  had  seen  nine  generations  of  highwaymen  rise  and  vanish : 

"There,  Joe,  when  did  you  ever  look  on  a  hero  like  that? 
The  bravest  heart,  the  frankest  hand,  the  best  judge  of  a  horse, 
and  the  handsomest  man  that  ever  did  honor  to  Hounslow!" 

"For  all  that,"  returned  the  ostler,  shaking  his  palsied  head, 
and  turning  back  to  the  tap-room, — "For  all  that,  master, 
his  time  be  up.  Mark  my  whids,  Captain  Lovett  will  not  be 
over  the  year, — no!  nor  mayhap  the  month!" 

"Why,  you  old  rascal,  what  makes  you  so  wise?  You  will  not 
peach,  I  suppose!" 

"I  peach!  devil  a  bit!  But  there  never  was  the  gemman  of 
the  road,  great  or  small,  knowing  or  stupid,  as  outlived  his 
seventh  year.  And  this  will  be  the  captain's  seventh,  come  the 
zist  of  next  month;  but  he  be  a  fine  chap,  and  I'll  go  to  his 
hanging!" 

"Pish!"  said  the  robber  peevishly, — he  himself  was  verging 
towards  the  end  of  his  sixth  year, — "pish!" 

"Mind,  I  tells  it  you,  master;  and  somehow  or  other  I 
thinks, — and  I  has  experience  in  these  things, — by  the  fey*  of 
his  eye,  and  the  drop  of  his  lip,  that  the  captain's  time  will  be 
up  to-day  !" 

Here  the  robber  lost  all  patience,  and  pushing  the  hoary 
boder  of  evil  against  the  wall,  he  turned  on  his  heel,  and  sought 
some  more  agreeable  companion  to  share  his  stirrup-cup. 

It  was  in  the  morning  of  the  day  following  that  in  which  the 
above  conversations  occurred,  that  the  sagacious  Augustus  Tom- 
linson  and  the  valorous  Edward  Pepper,  handcuffed  and  fet- 
tered, were  jogging  along  the  road  in  a  postchaise  with  Mr. 
Nabbem  squeezed  in  by  the  side  of  the  former,  and  two  other 
gentlemen  in  Mr.  Nabbem's  confidence  mounted  on  the  box  of 
the  chaise,  and  interfering  sadly,  as  Long  Ned  growlingly  re- 
marked, with  "the  beauty  of  the  prospect." 

"Ah,  well!"  quoth  Nabbem,  unavoidably  thrusting  his  elbow 
into  Tomlinson's  side,  while  he  drew  out  his  snuff-box,  and 
helped  himself  largely  to  the  intoxicating  dust.  "You  had  best 
prepare  yourself,  Mr.  Pepper,  for  a  change  of  prospects.  I 
believe  as  how  there  is  little  to  please  you  in  quod  (prison)." 

"Nothing  makes  men  so  facetious  as  misfortune  to  others!" 
said  Augustus,  moralizing,  and  turning  himself,  as  well  as  he 
was  able,  in  order  to  deliver  his  body  from  the  pointed  elbow 

*  A  word  difficult  to   translate  ;  but  the  closest  interpretation  of  which  is,  perhaps, "  the 
ill  onttn." 


314  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

of  Mr.  Nabbem.  "When  a  man  is  down  in  the  world,  all  the 
bystanders,  very  dull  fellows  before,  suddenly  become  wits!" 

"You  reflects  on  I,"  said  Mr.  Nabbem:  "well,  it  does  not 
sinnify  a  pin,  for  directly  we  does  our  duty,  you  chaps  become 
howdaciously  ungrateful ! ' ' 

"Ungrateful!"  said  Pepper:  "what  a  plague  have  we  got 
to  be  grateful  for?  I  suppose  you  think  we  ought  to  tell  you, 
you  are  the  best  friend  we  have,  because  you  have  scrouged  us, 
neck  and  crop,  into  this  horrible  hole,  like  turkeys  fatted  for 
Christmas.  'Sdeath !  one's  hair  is  flatted  down  like  a  pancake ; 
and  as  for  one's  legs,  you  had  better  cut  them  off  at  once  than 
tuck  them  up  in  a  place  a  foot  square, — to  say  nothing  of  these 
blackguardly  irons!" 

"The  only  irons  pardonable  in  your  eyes,  Ned,"  said  Tom- 
linson,  "are  the  curling-irons,  eh?" 

"Now  if  this  is  not  too  much!"  cried  Nabbem  crossly; 
"you  objects  to  go  in  a  cart  like  the  rest  of  your  profession; 
and  when  I  puts  myself  out  of  the  way  to  obleedge  you  with  a 
shay,  you  slangs  I  for  it." 

"Peace,  good  Nabbem!"  said  Augustus,  with  a  sage's  dig- 
nity; "you  must  allow  a  little  bad  humor  in  men  so  unhappily 
situated  as  we  are." 

The  soft  answer  turneth  away  wrath.  Tomlinson' s  answer 
softened  Nabbem;  and,  by  way  of  conciliation,  he  held  his 
snuff-box  to  the  nose  of  his  unfortunate  prisoner.  Shutting  his 
eyes  Tomlinson  long  and  earnestly  sniffed  up  the  luxury,  and 
as  soon  as,  with  his  own  kerchief  of  spotted  yellow,  the  officer 
had  wiped  from  the  proboscis  some  lingering  grains,  Tomlin- 
son thus  spoke: 

"You  see  us  now,  Mr.  Nabbem,  in  a  state  of  broken-down 
o,. position ;  but  our  spirits  are  not  broken  too.  In  our  time 
we  have  had  something  to  do  with  the  administration;  and  our 
comfort  at  present,  is  the  comfort  of  fallen  ministers!" 

"Oho!  you  were  in  the  Methodist  line  before  you  took  to 
the  road?"  said  Nabbem. 

"Not  so!"  answered  Augustus  gravely.  "We  were  the 
Methodists  of  politics,  not  of  the  church;  viz.,  we  lived  upon 
our  flock  without  a  legal  authority  to  do  so,  and  that  which  the 
law  withheld  from  us,  our  wits  gave.  But  tell  me,  Mr.  Nab- 
bem, are  you  addicted  to  politics  ? " 

"Why,  they  says  I  be,"  said  Mr.  Nabbem,  with  a  grin; 
"and  for  rhy  part,  I  thinks  all  who  sarves  the  King  should  stand 
up  for  him,  and  take  care  of  their  little  families!" 

"You  sfeak  what  others  think!"  answered  Tomlinson,  smil- 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  315 

ing  also.  "And  I  will  now,  since  you  like  politics,  point  out 
to  you  what  I  dare  say  you  have  not  observed  before." 

"What  be  that?"  said  Nabbem. 

"A  wonderful  likeness  between  the  life  of  the  gentlemen 
adorning  his  Majesty's  senate  and  the  life  of  the  gentlemen 
whom  you  are  conducting  to  his  Majesty's  gaol." 

THE  LIBELLOUS  PARALLEL  OF  AUGUSTUS  TOML1NSON. 

"We  enter  our  career,  Mr.  Nabbem,  as  your  embryo  minis- 
ters enter  parliament, — by  bribery  and  corruption.  There  is 
this  difference,  indeed,  between  the  two  cases:  ive  are  en- 
ticed to  enter  by  the  bribery  and  corruption  of  others, — they 
enter  spontaneously  by  dint  of  their  own.  At  first,  deluded  by 
romantic  visions,  we  like  the  glory  of  our  career  better  than  the 
profit,  and  in  our  youthful  generosity  we  profess  to  attack  the 
rich  solely  from  consideration  for  the  poor!  By  and  by,  as  we 
grow  more  hardened,  we  laugh  at  these  boyish  dreams, — peas- 
ant or  prince  fares  equally  at  our  impartial  hands;  we  grasp  at 
the  bucket,  but  we  scorn  not  the  thimble-full ;  we  use  the  word 
glory  only  as  a  trap  for  proselytes  and  apprentices ;  our  fingers, 
like  an  office  door,  are  open  for  all  that  can  possibly  come  into 
them:  we  consider  the  wealthy  as  our  salary,  the  poor  as  our 
perquisites.  What  is  this,  but  a  picture  of  your  member  of  par- 
liament ripening  into  a  minister, — your  patriot  mellowing  into 
your  placeman?  And  mark  me,  Mr.  Nabbem!  is  not  the  very 
language  of  both  as  similar  as  the  deeds?  What  is  the  phrase 
either  of  us  loves  to  employ? — 'To  deliver.'  What? — 'The 
Public."  And  do  we  not  both  invariably  deliver  it  of  the  same 
thing? — viz.,  its  purse  !  Do  we  want  an  excuse  for  sharing  the 
gold  of  our  neighbors,  or  abusing  them,  if  they  resist?  Is  not 
our  mutual — our  pithiest  plea — 'Distress!'  True  your  patriot 
calls  it  'distress  of  the  country' :  but  does  he  ever,  a  whit  more 
than  we  do,  mean  any  distress  but  his  own?  When  we  are 
brought  low,  and  our  coats  are  shabby,  do  we  not  both  shake 
our  heads  and  talk  of  'reform'?  and  when — oh!  when  we  are  up 
in  the  world,  do  we  not  both  kick  'reform'  to  the  devil!  How 
often  your  parliament  man  'vacates  his  seat,'  only  for  the  pur- 
pose of  resuming  it  with  a  weightier  purse!  How  often,  dear 
Ned,  have  our  seats  been  vacated  for  the  same  end !  Some- 
times, indeed,  he  really  finishes  his  career  by  accepting  the 
hundreds, — it  is  by  'accepting  the  hundreds'  that  ours  may 
be  finished  too! — (Ned  drew  a  long  sigh.) — Note  us  now,  Mr. 
Nabbem,  in  the  zenith  of  our  prosperity — we  have  filled  our 
pockets,  we  have  become  great  in  the  mouths  of  our  party. 


310  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

Our  pals  admire  us,  and  our  blowens  adore!  What  do  we  in 
this  short-lived  summer.  Save  and  be  thrifty?  Ah,  no!  we 
must  give  our  dinners,  and  make  light  of  our  lush.  We  sport 
horses  on  the  race-course,  and  look  big  at  the  multitude  we  have 
bubbled.  Is  not  this  your  minister  come  into  office?  Does 
not  this  remind  you  of  his  equipage,  his  palace,  his  plate?  In 
both  cases,  lightly  won,  lavishly  wasted;  and  the  public, whose 
cash  we  have  fingered,  may  at  least  have  the  pleasure  of  gap- 
ing at  the  figure  we  make  with  it!  This,  then,  is  our  har- 
vest of  happiness ;  our  foes,  our  friends,  are  ready  to  eat  us 
with  envy — yet  what  is  so  little  enviable  as  our  station?  Have 
we  not  both  our  common  vexations  and  our  mutual  disquietudes? 
Do  we  not  both  bribe — (Nabbem  shook  his  head  and  buttoned 
his  waistcoat) — our  enemies,  cajole  our  partisans,  bully  our  de- 
pendants, and  quarrel  with  our  only  friends,  viz.,  ourselves? 
Is  not  the  secret  question  with  each — 'It  is  all  confoundedly 
fine;  but  how  long  will  it  last?'  Now,  Mr.  Nabbem,  note  me, — 
reverse  the  portrait:  we  are  fallen,  our  career  is  over — the 
road  is  shut  to  us,  and  new  plunderers  are  robbing  the  carriages 
that  once  we  robbed.  Is  not  this  the  lot  of — no,  no !  I  deceive 
myself!  Your  ministers,  your  jobmen,  for  the  most  part  milk 
the  popular  cow  while  there's  a  drop  in  the  udder.  Your  chan- 
cellor declines  on  a  pension, — your  minister  attenuates  on  a 
grant, — the  feet  of  your  great  rogues  may  be  gone  from  the 
treasury  benches,  but  they  have  their  little  fingers  in  the  treas- 
ury. Their  past  services  are  remembered  by  his  Majesty, — 
ours  only  noted  by  the  Recorder:  they  save  themselves,  for 
they  hang  by  one  another ;  we  go  to  the  devil,  for  we  hang  by 
ourselves:  we  have  our  little  day  of  the  public,  and  all  is  over; 
but  it  is  never  over  with  them.  We  both  hunt  the  same  fox: 
but  we  are  your  fair  riders:  they  are  your  knowing  ones — we 
take  the  leap  and  our  necks  are  broken :  they  sneak  through 
the  gates,  and  keep  it  up  to  the  last!" 

As  he  concluded,  Tomlinson's  head  drooped  on  his  bosom, 
and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  painful  comparisons,  mingled  per- 
haps with  secret  murmurs  at  the  injustice  of  fortune,  were  rank- 
ling in  his  breast.  Long  Ned  sat  in  gloomy  silence ;  and  even 
the  hard  heart  of  the  severe  Mr.  Nabbem  was  softened  by  the 
affecting  parallel  to  which  he  had  listened.  They  had  proceeded 
without  speaking  for  two  or  three  miles,  when  Long  Ned,  fixing 
his  eyes  on  Tomlinson,  exclaimed: 

"Do  you  know,  Tomlinson,  I  think  it  was  a  burning  shame 
in  Lovett  to  suffer  us  to  be  carried  off  like  muttons,  without 
attempting  to  rescue  us  by  the  way!  It  is-  all  his  fault 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  317 

that  we  are  here!  for  it  was  he  whom  Nabbem  wanted,  not 
us!" 

"Very  true, "  said  the  cunning  policeman;  "and  if  I  were 
you,  Mr.  Pepper,  hang  me  if  I  would  not  behave  like  a  man 
of  spirit,  and  show  as  little  consarn  for  him  as  he  shows  for  you ! 
Why,  Lord  now,  I  doesn't  want  to  'tice  you ;  but  this  I  does 
know,  the  justices  are  very  anxious  to  catch  Lovett;  and  one 
who  gives  him  up  and  says  a  word  or  two  about  his  cracter,  so  as 
to  make  conviction  sartain,  may  himself  be  sartain  of  a  free 
pardon  for  all  little  sprees  and  so  forth ! ' ' 

"Ah!"  said  Long  Ned,  with  a  sigh,  "that  is  all  very  well, 
Mf.  Nabbem,  but  I'll  go  to  the  crap  like  a  gentleman  and  not 
peach  of  my  comrades ;  and  now  I  think  of  it,  Lovett  could 
scarely  have  assisted  us.  One  man  alone,  even  Lovett,  clever 
as  he  is,  could  not  have  forced  us  out  of  the  clutches  of  you  and 
your  myrmidons,  Mr.  Nabbem !  And  when  we  were  once  at 
— : — ,  they  took  excellent  care  of  us.  But  tell  me  now,  my  dear 
Nabbem, "and  Long  Ned's  voice  wheedled  itself  into  some- 
thing like  softness, — "tell  me,  do  you  think  the  grazier  will  buff 
it  home?" 

"No  doubt  of  that,"  said  the  unmoved  Nabbem.  Long 
Ned's  face  fell.  "And  what  if  he  does?"  said  he;  "they  can 
but  transport  us!" 

"Don't  desave  yourself,  Master  Pepper!"  said  Nabbem: 
"you're  too  old  a  hand  for  the  herring-pond.  They're  re- 
solved to  make  gallows  apples  of  all  such  numprels  (Nonpa- 
reils] as  you." 

Ned  cast  a  sullen  look  at  the  officer. 

"A  pretty  comforter  you  are!"  said  he.  "I  have  been  in  a 
postchaise  with  a  pleasanter  fellow,  I'll  swear!  You  may  call 
me  an  apple  if  you  will,  but,  I  take  it,  I  am  not  an  apple 
you'd  like  to  SQQ  peeled. " 

With  this  pugilistic  and  menacing  pun,  the  lengthy  hero 
relapsed  into  meditative  silence. 

Our  travellers  were  now  entering  a  road  skirted  on  one  side 
by  a  common  of  some  extent,  and  on  the  other  by  a  thick 
hedgerow,  which  through  its  breaks  gave  occasional  glimpses  of 
woodland  and  fallow,  interspersed  with  cross-roads  and  liny 
brooklets. 

"There  goes  a  jolly  fellow !"  said  Nabbem,  pointing  to  an 
athletic-looking  man,  riding  before  the  carriage,  dressed  in  a 
farmer's  garb,  and  mounted  on  a  large  and  powerful  horse  of 
the  Irish  breed.  "I  day  say  he  is  well  acquainted  with  your 
grazier,  Mr.  Tomlinson ;  he  looks  mortal  like  one  of  the  same 


3io  .      PAUL  CLIFFORD. 

kidney;  and  here  comes  another  chap" — (as  the  stranger  was 
joined  by  a  short,  stout,  ruddy  man  in  a  carter's  frock,  riding 
on  a  horse  less  showy  than  his  comrade's,  but  of  the  lengthy, 
reedy,  lank,  yet  muscular  race,  which  a  knowing  jockey  would 
like  to  bet  on). — "Now  that's  what  I  calls  a  comely  lad !"  con- 
tinued Nabbem,  pointing  to  the  latter  horseman ;  "none  of 
your  thin-faced,  dark,  strapping  fellows  like  that  Captain  Lov- 
ett,  as  the  blowens  raves  about,  but  a  nice,  tight,  little  body, 
with  a  face  like  a  carrot!  That's  a  beauty  for  my  money! 
honesty's  stamped  on  his  face,  Mr.  Tomlinson !  I  dare  says — 
(and  the  officer  grinned,  for  he  had  been  a  lad  of  the  cross  in 
his .  own  day) — I  dare  says,  poor  innocent  booby,  he  knows 
none  of  the  ways  of  Lunnun  town ;  and  if  he  has  not  as  merry 
a  life  as  some  folks,  mayhap  he  may  have  a  longer.  But  a 
merry  one  for  ever,  for  such  lads  as  us,  Mr.  Pepper !  I  say, 
has  you  heard  as  how  Bill  Fang  went  to  Scratchland  (Scotland) 
and  was  stretched  for  smashing  queer  screens  (i.  e.  hung  for 
uttering  forged  notes)?  He  died  'nation  game;  for  when  his 
father,  who  was  a  gray-headed  parson,  came  to  see  him  after 
the  sentence,  he  says  to  the  governor,  says  he,  'Give  us  a  tip, 
old  'un,  to  pay  the  expenses,  and  die  dacently.'  The  parson 
forks  him  out  ten  shiners,  preaching  all  the  while  like  winkey. 
Bob  drops  one  of  the  guineas  between  his  fingers,  and  says, 
'Holla,  dad,  you  have  only  tipped  us  nine  of  the  yellow  boys; 
just  now  you  said  as  how  it  was  ten ! '  On  this  the  parish-bull, 
who  was  as  poor  as  if  he'd  been  a  mouse  of  the  church  instead 
of  the  curate,  lugs  out  another;  and  Bob,  turning  round  to  the 
gaoler,  cries,  'Flung  the  governor  out  of  a  guinea,  by  G — d!'* 
Now,  that's  what  I  calls  keeping  it  up  to  the  last!" 

Mr.  Nabbem  had  scarcely  finished  this  anecdote,  when  the 
farmer-like  stranger,  who  had  kept  up  by  the  side  of  the  chaise, 
suddenly  rode  to  the  window,  and,  touching  his  hat,  said  in  a 
Norfolk  accent,  "Were  the  gentlemen  we  met  on  the  road  be- 
longing to  your  party?  They  were  asking  after  a  chaise  and 
pair." 

"No!"  said  Nabbem,  "there  be  no  gentleman  as  belongs  to 
our  party!"  So  saying,  he  tipped  a  knowing  wink  at  the 
farmer,  and  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the  prisoners. 

"What!   you  are  going  all  alone?"  said  the  farmer. 

"Ay,  to  be  sure,  "  answered  Nabbem;  "not  much  danger,  I 
think,  in  the  day-time,  with  the  son  out  as  big  as  a  sixpence, 
which  is  as  big  as  ever  I  see'd  him  in  this  country!" 

At  that  moment,  the  shorter  stranger,  whose  appearance  had 

*  Fact. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  319 

attracted  the  praise  of  Mr.  Nabbem  (that  personage  was  him- 
self very  short  and  ruddy),  and  who  had  hitherto  been  riding 
close  to  the  post-horses,  and  talking  to  the  officers  on  the  box, 
suddenly  threw  himself  from  his  steed,  and  in  the  same  instant 
that  he  arrested  the  horses  of  the  chaise,  strtick  the  postilion 
to  the  ground  with  a  short,  heavy  bludgeon  which  he  drew  from 
his  frock.  A  whistle  was  heard  and  answered,  as  if  by  a  sig- 
nal: three  fellows,  armed  with  bludgeons,  leaped  from  the 
hedge ;  and  in  the  interim  the  pretended  farmer,  dismounting, 
flung  open  the  door  of  the  chaise,  and  seizing  Mr.  Nabbem  by 
the  collar,  swung  him  to  the  ground  with  a  celerity  that  be- 
came the  circular  rotundity  of  the  policeman's  figure,  rather 
than  the  deliberate  gravity  of  his  dignified  office. 

Rapid  and  instantaneous  as  had  been  his  work,  it  was  not 
without  a  check.  Although  the  policemen  had  not  dreamed  of 
a  rescue  in  the  very  face  of  the  day,  and  on  the  high  road, 
their  profession  was  not  that  which  suffered  them  easily  to  be 
surprised.  The  two  guardians  of  the  dickey  leaped  nimbly  to 
the  ground ;  but  before  they  had  time  to  use  their  fire-arms, 
two  of  the  new  aggressors,  who  had  appeared  from  the  hedge, 
closed  upon  them,  and  bore  them  to  the  ground:  while  this 
scuffle  took  place,  the  farmer  had  disarmed  the  prostrate  Nab- 
bem, and  giving  him  in  charge  to  the  remaining  confederate, 
extricated  Tomlinson  and  his  comrade  from  the  chaise. 

"Hist!"  said  he,  in  a  whisper,  "beware  my  name;  my  dis- 
guise hides  me  at  present — lean  on  me — only  through  the 
hedge,  a  cart  waits  there,  and  you  are  safe!" 

With  these  broken  words  he  assisted  the  robbers,  as  well  as 
he  could,  in  spite  of  their  manacles,  through  the  same  part  of 
the  hedge  from  which  the  three  allies  had  sprung.  They  were 
already  through  the  barrier;  only  the  long  legs  of  Ned  Pepper 
lingered  behind;  when  at  the  far  end  of  the  road,  which  was 
perfectly  straight,  a  gentleman's  carriage  became  visible.  A 
strong  hand  from  the  interior  of  the  hedge  seizing  Pepper, 
dragged  him  through,  and  Clifford — for  the  reader  need  not 
be  told  who  was  the  farmer — perceiving  the  approaching  re- 
enforcement,  shouted  at  once  for  flight.  The  robber  who  had 
guarded  Nabbem,  and  who  indeed  was  no  other  than  Old  Bags, 
slow  as  he  habitually  was,  lost  not  an  instant  in  providing  for 
himself;  before  you  could  say  "Laudamus, "  he  was  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hedge ;  the  two  men  engaged  with  the  police- 
officers  were  not  capable  of  an  equal  celerity ;  but  Clifford, 
throwing  himself  into  the  contest  and  engaging  the  policemen, 
gave  the  robbers  the  opportunity  of  escape.  They  scrambled 


320  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

through  the  fence,  the  officers,  tough  fellows  and  keen,  cling- 
ing lustily  to  them,  till  one  was  felled  by  Clifford,  and  the 
other  catching  against  a  stump,  was  forced  to  relinquish  his  hold ; 
he  then  sprang  back  into  the  road  and  prepared  for  Clifford, 
who  now,  however,  occupied  himself  rather  in  fugitive  than 
warlike  measures.  Meanwhile,  the  moment  the  other  rescuers 
had  passed  the  Rubicon  of  the  hedge,  their  flight,  and  that  of 
the  gentlemen  who  had  passed  before  them,  commenced.  On 
this  mystic  side  of  the  hedge  was  a  cross-road,  striking  at  once 
through  an  intricate  and  wooded  part  of  the  country,  which  al- 
lowed speedy  and  ample  opportunities  of  dispersion.  Here  a 
light  cart,  drawn  by  two  swift  horses,  in  a  tandem  fashion, 
awaited  the  fugitives.  Long  Ned  and  Augustus  were  stowed 
down  at  the  bottom  of  the  vehicle ;  three  fellows  filed  away 
at  their  irons,  and  a  fourth,  who  had  hitherto  remained  inglori- 
ous with  the  cart,  gave  the  lash — and  he  gave  it  handsomely — 
to  the  coursers.  Away  rattled  the  equipage;  and  thus  was 
achieved  a  flight,  still  memorable  in  the  annals  of  the  elect,  and 
long  quoted  as  one  of  the  boldest  and  most  daring  exploits 
that  illicit  enterprise  ever  accomplished. 

Clifford  and  his  equestrian  comrade  only  remained  in  ttie 
field,  or  rather  the  road;  the  former  sprang  at  once  on  his 
horse, — the  latter  was  not  long  in  following  the  example. 
But  the  policeman,  who,  it  has  been  said,  baffled  in  detaining 
the  fugitives  of  the  hedge,  had  leaped  back  into  the  road,  was 
not  idle  in  the  meanwhile.  When  he  saw  Clifford  about  to 
mount,  instead  of  attempting  to  seize  the  enemy,  he  recurred  to 
his  pistol,  which  in  the  late  struggle  hand  to  hand  he  had  been 
unable  to  use,  and  taking  sure  aim  at  Clifford,  whom  he  judged 
at  once  to  be  the  leader  of  the  rescue,  he  lodged  a  ball  in  the 
right  side  of  the  robber,  at  the  very  moment  he  had  set  spurs 
in  his  horse  and  turned  to  fly.  Clifford's  head  drooped  to  the 
saddle-bow.  Fiercely  the  horse  sprang  on  ;  the  robber  endeav- 
ored, despite  his  reeling  senses,  to  retain  his  seat — once  he 
raised  his  head — once  he  nerved  his  slackened  and  listless 
limbs — and  then,  with  a  faint  groan,  he  fell  to  the  earth.  The 
horse  bounded  but  one  step  more,  and,  true,  to  the  tutorship 
it  had  received,  stopped  abruptly.  Clifford  raised  himself  with 
great  difficulty  on  one  arm ;  with  the  other  hand  he  drew  forth 
a  pistol;  he  pointed  it  deliberately  towards  the  officer  that 
wounded  him ;  the  man  stood  motionless,  cowering  and  spell- 
bound, beneath  the  dilating  eye  of  the  robber.  It  was  but  for 
a  moment  that  the  man  had  cause  for  dread ;  for  muttering  be- 
tween his  ground  teeth,  "Why  waste  it  on  an  enemy  f"  Clif- 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  $21 

ford  turned  the  muzzle  towards  the  head  of  the  unconscious 
steed,  which  seemed  sorrowfully  and  wistfully  to  incline  towards 
him.  "Thou,"  he  said,  "whom  I  have  fed  and  loved  shalt 
never  know  hardship  from  another!"  and  with  a  merciful 
cruelty  he  dragged  himself  one  pace  nearer  to  his  beloved 
steed,  uttering  a  well-known  word,  which  brought  the  docile 
creature  to  his  side,  and  placing  the  muzzle  of  the  pistol  close 
to  his  ear  he  fired,  and  fell  back  senseless  at  the  exertion.  The 
animal  staggered,  and  dropped  down  dead. 

Meanwhile  Clifford's  comrade,  profiting  by  the  surprise  and 
sudden  panic  of  the  officer,  was  already  out  of  reach,  and  dart- 
ing across  the  common,  he  and  his  ragged  courser  speedily 
vanished. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

"  Lose  I  not 

With  him  what  fortune  could  in  life  allot  ? 
Lose  I  not  hope,  life's  cordial  ? 

***** 

In  fact,  the  lessons  he  from  prudence  took 
Were  written  in  his  mind  as  in  a  book. 
There  what  to  do  he  read,  and  what  to  shun, 
And  all  commanded  was  witli  promptness  done  : 
He  seemed  without  n  passion  to  proceed, 

***** 
Yet  some  believed  those  passions  only  slept  !  " 

— CRABBE. 
"  Relics  of  love  and  life's  enchanted  spring  !  " 

— A.  WATTS,  on  burning  a  Packet  of  Letters. 
"  Many  and  sad  and  deep 

Were  the  thoughts  folded  in  thy  silent  breast  ! 
Thou,  too,  conldst  watch  and  weep  !  " 

— MRS.  HEMANS. 

WHILE  Sir  William  Brandon  was  pursuing  his  ambitious 
schemes,  and  notwithstanding  Lucy's  firm  and  steady  refusal 
of  Lord  Mauleverer,  was  still  determined  on  that  ill-assorted 
marriage ;  while  Mauleverer  himself,  day  after  day,  attended  at 
the  judge's  house,  and,  though  he  spoke  not  of  love,  looked  it 
with  all  his  might ;  it  became  obvious  to  every  one  but  the 
lover  and  the  guardian,  that  Lucy  herself  was  rapidly  declining  in 
appearance  and  health.  Ever  since  the  day  she  had  last  seen 
Clifford,  her  spirits,  before  greatly  shattered,  had  refused  to 
regain  even  a  likeness  to  their  naturally  cheerful  and  happy 
tone.  She  became  silent  and  abstracted  ;  even  her  gentleness 


322  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

of  temper  altered  at  times  into  a  moody  and  fretful  humor. 
Neither  to  books  nor  music,  nor  any  art  by  which  time  is  be- 
guiled, she  recurred  for  a  momentary  alleviation  of 'the  bitter 
feelings  at  her  heart,  or  for  a  transient  forgetfulness  of  their 
sting.  The  whole  world  of  her  mind  had  been  shaken.  Her 
pride  was  wounded;  her  love  galled;  her  faith  in  Clifford  gave 
way  at  length  to  gloomy  and  dark  suspicion.  Nothing,  she 
now  felt,  but  a  name  as  well  as  fortunes  utterly  abandoned, 
could  have  justified  him  for  the  stubbornness  of  heart  in  which 
he  had  fled  and  deserted  her.  Her  own  self-acquittal  no  longer 
consoled  her  in  affliction.  She  condemned  herself  for  her 
weakness,  from  the  birth  of  her  ill-starred  affection  to  the  crisis 
it  had  now  acquired.  "Why  did  I  not  wrestle  with  it  at  first?" 
she  said  bitterly.  "Why  did  I  allow  myself  so  easily  to  love 
one  unknown  to  me,  and  equivocal  in  station,  despite  the  cau- 
tions of  my  uncle  and  the  whispers  of  the  world?"  Alas!  Lucy 
did  not  remember,  that  at  the  time  she  was  guilty  of  this  weak- 
ness she  had  not  learned  to  reason  as  she  since  reasoned.  Her 
faculties  were  but  imperfectly  awakened ;  her  experience  of  the 
world  was  utter  ignorance.  She  scarcely  knew  that  she  loved, 
and  she  knew  not  at  all  that  the  delicious  and  excited  sentiment 
which  filled  her  being  could  ever  become  as  productive  of  evil 
and  peril  as  it  had  done  now ;  and  even  had  her  reason  been 
more  developed,  and  her  resolutions  more  strong,  does  the 
exertion  of  reason  and  resolution  always  avail  against  the  mas- 
ter passion?  Love,  it  is  true,  is  not  unconquerable ;  but  how 
few  have  ever,  mind  and  soul,  coveted  the  conquest!  Disap- 
pointment makes  a  vow,  but  the  heart  records  it  not.  Or  in 
the  noble  image  of  one  who  has  so  tenderly  and  so  truly  por- 
trayed the  feelings  of  her  own  sex, 

"  We  make 

A  ladder  of  our  thoughts  where  angels  step, 
But  sle.ep  ourselves  at  the  foot  !  " 

Before  Clifford  had  last  seen  her,  we  have  observed  that 
Lucy  had  (and  it  was  a  consolation)  clung  to  the  belief  that, 
despite  of  appearances  and  his  own  confession,  his  past  life  had 
not  been  such  as  to  place  him  without  the  pale  of  her  just  affec- 
tions; and  there  were  frequent  moments  when,  remembering 
that  the  death  of  her  father  had  removed  the  only  being  who 
could  assert  an  unanswerable  claim  to  the  dictation  of  her  ac- 
tions, she  thought  that  Clifford,  hearing  her  hand  was  utterly 
at  her  own  disposal,  might  again  appear,  and  again  urge  a  suit 

*  "  The  History  of  the  Lyre,"  by  L.  E.  L. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  323 

which  she  felt  so  few  circumstances  could  induce  her  to  deny. 
All  this  half-acknowledged  yet  earnest  train  of  reasoning  and 
hope  vanished  from  the  moment  he  had  quitted  her  uncle's 
house.  His  words  bore  no  misinterpretation.  He  had  not 
yielded  even  to  her  own  condescension,  and  her  cheek  burnt  as 
she  recalled  it.  Yet  he  loved  her.  She  saw,  she  knew  it  in 
his  every  word  and  look!  Bitter,  then,  and  dark  must  be  that 
remorse  which  could  have  conquered  every  argument  but  that 
which  urged  him  to  leave  her,  when  he  might  have  claimed  her 
forever.  True,  that  when  his  letter  formerly  bade  her  fare- 
well, the  same  self-accusing  language  was  recurred  to,  the  same 
dark  hints  and  allusions  to  infamy  and  guilt ;  yet  never  till  now 
had  she  interpreted  them  rigidly,  and  never  till  now  had  she 
dreamed  how  far  their  meaning  could  extend.  Still,  what 
crimes  could  he  have  committed?  The  true  ones  never  oc- 
curred to  Lucy.  She  shuddered  to  ask  herself,  and  hushed 
her  doubts  in  a  gloomy  and  torpid  silence!  But  through  all 
her  accusations  against  herself,  and  through  all  her  awakened 
suspicions  against  Clifford,  she  coutd  not  but  acknowledge  that 
something  noble  and  not  unworthy  of  her  mingled  in  his  eon- 
duct,  and  occasioned  his  resistance  to  her  and  to  himself;  and 
this  belief,  perhaps,  irritated  even  while  it  touched  her,  and 
kept  her. feelings  in  a  perpetual  struggle  and  conflict,  which 
her  delicate  frame  and  soft  mind  were  little  able  to,  endure. 
When  the  nerves  once  break,  how  breaks  the  character  with 
tliem !  .  How  many  ascetics,  withered  and  soured,  do  we  meet 
in  the  world,  who  but  for  one  shock  to  the  heart  and  form 
might  have  erred  on  the  side  of  meekness!  Whether .  it  come 
from  woe  or  disease,  the  stroke,  which  mars  a  single  fibre  plays 
strange  havoc  with  the  mind.  Slaves  we  are  to  our  muscles,  and 
puppets  to  the  spring  of  the  capricious  blood;  and  the  great 
soul,  with  all  its  capacities,  its  solemn  attributes,  and  sounding 
claims,  is  while  on  earth  but  a  jest  to  this  mountebank — the 
body — from  the  dream  which  toys  with  it  for  an  hour,  to  the 
lunacy  which  shivers  it  into  a  driveller,  laughing  as  it  plays 
with  its  own  fragments,  and  reeling  benighted  and  blinded  to 
the  grave! 

We  have  before  said,  that  Lucy  was  fond  both  of  her  uncle 
and  his  society ;  and  still,  whenever  the  subject  of  Lord  Maul- 
everer  and  his  suit  was  left  untouched,  there  was  that  in  the 
conversation  of  Sir  William  Brandon  which  aroused  an  interest 
in  her  mind,  engrossed  and  self-consuming  as  it  had  become. 
Sorrow,  indeed,  and  sorrow's  companion,  reflection,  made  her 
more  and  more  capable  of  comprehending  a  very  subtle  and 


324  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

intricate  character.  There  is  no  secret  for  discovering  the 
human  heart  like  affliction— especially  the  affliction  which 
springs  from  passion.  Does  a  writer  startle  you  with  his  in- 
sight into  your  nature,  be  sure  that  he  has  mourned:  such  lore 
is  the  alchemy  of  tears.  Hence  the  insensible  and  almost  uni- 
versal confusion  of  idea,  which  confounds  melancholy  with 
depth,  and  finds  but  hollow  inanity  in  the  symbol  of  a  laugh. 
Pitiable  error !  Reflection  first  leads  us  to  gloom,  but  its  next 
stage  is  to  brightness.  The  Laughing  Philosopher  had  reached 
the  goal  of  Wisdom:  Heraclitus  whimpered  at  the  starting-post. 
But  enough  for  Lucy  to  gain  even  the  vestibule  of  philosophy. 

Notwithstanding  the  soreness  we  naturally  experience 
towards  all  who  pertinaciously  arouse  an  unpleasant  subject, 
and  in  spite  therefore  of  Brandon's  furtherance  of  Mauleverer's 
courtship,  Lucy  felt  herself  incline  strangely,  and  with  some- 
thing of  a  daughter's  affection,  towards  this  enigmatical 
being ;  in  spite,  too,  of  all  the  cold  and  measured  vice  of  his 
character, — the  hard  and  wintry  grayness  of  heart  with  which 
he  regarded  the  welfare  of  others,  or  the  substances  of  Truth, 
Honor,  and  Virtue, — the  callousness  of  his  fossilized  affections, 
which  no  human  being  softened  but  for  a  moment,  and  no  warm 
and  healthful  impulse  struck,  save  into  an  evanescent  and  idle 
flash, — in  spite  of  this  consummate  obduracy  and  worldliness 
of  temperament,  it  is  not  paradoxical  to  say  that  there  was 
something  in  the  man  which  Lucy  found  at  times  analogous  to 
her  own  vivid  and  generous  self.  This  was,  however,  only 
noticeable  when  she  led  him  to  talk  over  earlier  days,  and  when 
by  degrees  the  sarcastic  lawyer  forgot  the  present,  and  grew 
eloquent,  not  over  the  actions  but  the  feelings  of  the  past.  He 
would  speak  to  her  for  hours  of  his  youthful  dreams,  his  occu- 
pations, or  his  projects,  as  a  boy.  Above  all,  he  loved  to  con- 
verse with  her  upon  Warlock,  its  remains  of  ancient  magnifi- 
cence, the  green  banks  of  the  placid  river  that  enriched  its  do- 
mains, and  the  summer  pomp  of  wood  and  heath-land,  amidst 
which  his  noonday  visions  had  been  nursed. 

When  he  spoke  of  these  scenes  and  days  his  countenance  soft- 
ened, and  something  in  its  expression,  recalling  to  Lucy  the 
image  of  one  still  dearer,  made  her  yearn  to  him  the  more. 
An  ice  seemed  broken  from  his  mind,  and  streams  of  released 
and  gentle  feelings,  mingled  with  kindly  and  generous  senti- 
ment, flowed  forth.  Suddenly,  a  thought,  a  word,  brought 
him  back  to  the  present — his  features  withered  abruptly  into 
their  cold  placidity  or  latent  sneer:  the  seal  closed  suddenly  on 
the  broken  spell,  and,  like  the  victim  of  a  fairy-tale,  con- 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  325 

demned  at  a  stated  hour  to  assume  another  shape,  the  very 
being  you  had  listened  to  seemed  vanished,  and  replaced  by 
one  whom  you  startled  to  behold.  But  there  was  one  epoch  of 
his  life  on  which  he  was  always  silent,  and  that  was,  his  first 
onset  into  the  actual  world — the  period  of  his  early  struggles 
into  wealth  and  fame.  All  that  space  of  time  seemed  as  a  dark 
gulf,  over  which  he  had  passed  and  become  changed  at  once — 
as  a  traveller  landing  on  a  strange  climate  may  adopt,  the 
moment  he  touches  its  shore,  its  costume  and  its  language. 

All  men — the  most  modest — have  a  common  failing,  but  it 
is  one  which  often  assumes  a  domino  and  mask — pride  !  Bran- 
don was,  however,  proud  to  a  degree  very  rare  in  men  who 
have  risen  and  flourished  in  the  world.  Out  of  the  wrecks  of  all 
other  feelings,  this  imperial  survivor  made  one  great  palace  for 
its  residence,  and  called  the  fabric  "Disdain."  Scorn  was  the 
real  essence  of  Brandon's  nature:  even  in  the  blandest  dis- 
guises, the  smoothness  of  his  voice,  the  insinuation  of  his 
smile,  the  popular  and  supple  graces  of  his  manners,  an  oily 
derision  floated,  rarely  discernible,  it  is  true,  but  proportioning 
its  strength  and  quantum  to  the  calm  it  produced. 

In  the  interim,  while  his  character  thus  displayed  and  contra- 
dicted itself  in  private  life,  his  fame  was  rapidly  rising  in  pub- 
lic estimation.  Unlike  many  of  his  brethren,  the  brilliant  law- 
yer had  exceeded  expectation,  and  shone  even  yet  more  con- 
spicuously in  the  less  adventitiously  aided  duties  of  the  judge. 
Envy  itself, — and  Brandon's  political  virulence  had,  despite  his 
personal  affability,  made  him  many  foes — was  driven  into  ac- 
knowledging the  profundity  of  his  legal  knowledge,  and  in 
admiring  the  manner  in  which  the  peculiar  functions  of  his 
novel  dignity  were  discharged.  No  juvenile  lawyer  browbeat, 
no  hackneyed  casuist  puzzled,  him ;  even  his  attention  never 
wandered  from  the  dullest  case  subjected  to  his  tribunal.  A 
painter,  desirous  of  stamping  on  his  canvas  the  portrait  of  an 
upright  judge,  could  scarcely  have  found  a  finer  realization  for 
his  beau  ideal  than  the  austere,  collected,  keen,  yet  majestic 
countenance  of  Sir  William  Brandon,  such  as  it  seemed  in  the 
trappings  of  office  and  from  the  seat  of  justice. 

The  newspapers  were  not  slow  in  recording  the  singular  cap- 
ture of  the  notorious  Lovett.  The  boldness  with  which  he  had 
planned  and  executed  the  rescue  of  his  comrades,  joined  to 
the  suspense  in  which  his  wound  for  some  time  kept  the  public 
as  to  his  escape  from  one  death  by  the  postern  gate  of  another, 
caused  a  very  considerable  ferment  and  excitation  in  the  pop- 
ular mind:  and,  to  feed  the  impulse,  the  journalists  were  little 


326  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

slothful  in  retailing  every  anecdote,  true  or  false,  which  they 
could  collect,  touching  the  past  adventures  of  the  daring  high- 
wayman. Many  a  good  story  then  came  to  light,  which  par- 
took as  much  of  the  comic  as  the  tragic ;  for  not  a  single  one 
of  the  robber's  adventures  was  noted  for  cruelty  or  bloodshed; 
many  of  them  betokened  rather  an  hilarious  and  jovial  spirit 
of  mirthful  enterprise.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  thought  the 
highway  a  capital  arena  for  jokes,  and  only  robbed  for  the  sake 
of  venting  a  redundant  affection  for  jesting.  Persons  felt  it 
rather  a  sin  to  be  severe  with  a  man  of  so  merry  a  disposition ; 
and  it  was  especially  observable  that  not  one  of  the  ladies  who 
had  been  despoiled  by  the  robber  could  be  prevailed  on  to  prose- 
cute. On  the  contrary,  they  always  talked  of  the  event  as  one 
of  the  most  agreeable  remembrances  in  their  lives,  and  seemed 
to  bear  a  provoking  gratitude  to  the  comely  offender,  rather  than 
resentment.  All  the  gentlemen  were  not,  however,  of  so  plac- 
able a  temper;  and  two  sturdy  farmers,  with  a  grazier  to  boot, 
were  ready  to  swear,  "through  thick  and  thin,"  to  the  identity 
of  the  prisoner  with  a  horseman  who  had  civilly  borne  each  of 
them  company  for  an  hour  in  their  several  homeward  rides 
from  certain  fairs,  and  had  carried  the  pleasure  of  his  society, 
they  very  gravely  asserted,  considerably  beyond  a  joke;  so 
that  the  state  of  the  prisoner's  affairs  took  a  very  sombre  as- 
pect, and  the  counsel — an  old  hand — intrusted  with  his  cause 
declared  confidently  that  there  was  not  a  chance.  But  a  yet 
more  weighty  accusation,  because  it  came  from  a  much  nobler 
quarter,  awaited  Clifford.  In  the  robber's  cavern  were  found 
several  articles  answering  exactly  to  the  description  of  those 
valuables  feloniously  abstracted  from  the  person  of  Lord 
Mauleverer.  That  nobleman  attended  to  inspect  the  articles, 
and  to  view  the  prisoner.  The  former  he  found  himself  able 
to  swear  to,  with  a  very  tranqirillized-conscience;  the  latter  he 
beheld  feverish,  attenuated,  and  in  a  moment  of  delirium,  on 
the  sick-bed  to  which  his  wound  had  brought  him.  He  was  at 
no  loss,  however,  to  recognize  in  the  imprisoned  felon  the  gay 
and  conquering  Clifford,  whom  he  had  once  even  honored  with 
his  envy.  Although  his  former  dim  and  vague  suspicions  of 
Clifford  were  thus  confirmed,  the  good-natured  peer  felt  some 
slight  compunction  at  appearing  as  his  prosecutor:  this  com- 
punction, however,  vanished  the  moment  he  left  the  sick 
man's  apartment;  and,  after  a  little  patriotic  conversation 
with  the  magistrates  about  the  necessity  of  public  duty — a 
theme  which  brought  virtuous  tears  into  the  eyes  of  those 
respectable  functionaries — he  re-entered  his  carriage,  returned 


PAUL  CLIFFORD.  327 

to  town,  and,  after  a  lively  dinner  tete-&-tete  with  an  old  chere- 
amie,  who,  of  all  her  charms,  had  preserved  only  the  attraction 
of  conversation  and  the  capacity  of  relishing  a  salmi,  Maul- 
everer,  the  very  evening  of  his  return,  betook  himself  to  the 
house  of  Sir  William  Brandon. 

When  he  entered  the  hall,  Barlow,  the  judge's  favorite  ser- 
vant, met  him,  with  rather  a  confused  and  mysterious  air,  and 
arresting  him  as  he  was  sauntering  into  Brandon's  library,  in- 
formed him  that  Sir  William  was  particularly  engaged,  but 
would  join  his  lordship  in  the  drawing-room.  While  BarloAv 
was  yet  speaking,  and  Mauleverer  was  bending  his  right  ear 
(with  which  he  heard  the  best)  towards  him,  the  library-door 
opened,  and  a  man  in  a  very  coarse  and  ruffianly  garb  awk- 
wardly bowed  himself  out.  "So  this  is  the  particular  engage- 
ment," thought  Mauleverer;  "a  strange  Sir  Pandarus:  but 
those  old  fellows  have  droll  tastes." 

"I  may  go  in  now,  my  good  fellow,  1  suppose?"  said  his  lord- 
ship to  Barlow;  and,  without  waiting  an  answer,  he  entered 
the  library.  He  found  Brandon  alone,  and  bending  earnestly 
over  some  letters  which  strewed  his  table.  Mauleverer  care- 
lessly approached,  and  threw  himself  into  an  opposite  chair.  Sir 
William  lifted  his  head,  as  he  heard  the  movement,  and  Maul- 
everer (reckless  as  was  that  personage)  was  chilled  and  almost 
awed  by  the  expression  of  his  friend's  countenance.'  Bran- 
don's face  was  one  which,  however  pliant,  nearly  always  wore 
one  pervading  character — calmness ;  whether  in  the  smooth- 
ness of  social  courtesy,  or  the  austerity  of  his  official  station, 
or  the  bitter  sarcasm  which  escaped  him  at  no  unfrequent  in- 
tervals; still  a  certain  hard  and  inflexible  dryness  stamped 
both  his  features  and  his  air.  But  at  this  time  a  variety  of 
feelings,  not  ordinarily  eloquent  in  the  outward  man,  struggled 
in  his  dark  face,  expressive  of  all  the  energy  and  passion  of  his 
powerful  and  masculine  nature;  there  seemed  to  speak  from 
his  features  and  eyes  something  of  shame,  and  anger,  and  tri- 
umph, and  regret,  and  scorn.  All  these  various  emotions, 
which,  it  appears  almost  a  paradox  to  assert,  met  in  the  same 
expression,  nevertheless  were  so  individually  and  almost  fear- 
fully stamped,  as  to  convey  at  once  their  signification  to  the 
mind  of  Mauleverer.  He  glanced  towards  the  letters,  in  which 
the  writing  seemed  faint  and  discolored  by  time  or  damp; 
and  then  once  more  regarding  the  face  of  Brandon,  said  in 
rather  an  anxious  and  subdued  tone: 

"Heavens,  Brandon!  are  you  ill?  or  has  anything  hap- 
pened?— you  alarm  me!" 


328  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

"Do  you  recognize  these  locks?"  said  Brandon,  in  a  hollow 
voice ;  and  from  under  the  letters  he  drew  some  ringlets  of  an 
auburn  hue,  and  pushed  them  with  an  averted  face  towards 
Mauleverer. 

The  Earl  took  them  up — regarded  them  for  a  few  moments — • 
changed  color,  but  shook  his  head  with  a  negative  gesture,  as 
he  laid  them  once  more  on  the  table. 

"This  handwriting,  then?"  renewed  the  judge  in  a  yet 
more  impressive  and  painful  voice ;  and  he  pointed  to  the 
letters. 

Mauleverer  raised  one  of  them,  and  held  it  between  his  face 
and  the  lamp,  so  that  whatever  his  features  might  have  betrayed 
was  hidden  from  his  companion.  At  length  he  dropped  the 
letter  with  an  affected  nonchalance,  and  said: 

"Ah,  I  know  the  writing  even  at  this  distance  of  time;  this 
letter  is  directed  to  you!" 

"It  is, — so  are  all  these,"  said  Brandon,  with  the  same  voice 
of  preternatural  and  strained  composure.  "They  have  come 
back  to  me  after  an  absence  of  nearly  twenty-five  years ;  they 
are  the  letters  she  wrote  to  me  in  the  days  of  our  courtship — 
(here  Brandon  laughed  scornfully) — she  carried  them  away 
with  her,  you  know  when ;  and  (a  pretty  clod  of  consistency  is 
woman!)  she  kept  them,  it  seems,  to  her  dying  day!" 

The  subject  in  discussion,  whatever  it  might  be,  appeared 
a  sore  one  to  Mauleverer ;  he  turned  uneasily  on  his  chair,  and 
said  at  length: 

"Well,  poor  creature!  these  are  painful  remembrances,  since 
it  turned  out  so  unhappily:  but  it  was  not  our  fault,  dear  Bran- 
c'on  ;  we  were  men  of  the  world, — we  knew  the  value  of — of — 
women,  and  treated  them  accordingly!" 

"Right!  right!  right!"  cried  Brandon  vehemently,  laughing 
in  a  wild  and  Joud  disdain  ;  the  intense  force  of  which  it  would 
be  in  vain  to  attempt  expressing. 

"Right!   and  faith,  my  lord,  I  repine  not,  nor  repent." 

"So,  so,  that's  well!"  said  Mauleverer,  still  not  at  his  ease, 
and  hastening  to  change  the  conversation.  "But,  my  dear 
Brandon,  I  have  strange  news  for  you !  You  remember  that 
fellow  Clifford,  who  had  the  insolence  to  address  himself  to 
your  adorable  niece?  I  told  you  I  suspected  that  long  friend 
of  his  of  having  made  my  acquaintance  somewhat  unpleasantly, 
and  I  therefore  doubted  of  Clifford  himself.  Well,  my  dear 
friend,  this  Clifford  is — whom  do  you  think? — no  other  than 
Mr.  Lovett,  of  Newgate  celebrity!" 

"You  do  not  say  so!     rejoined   Brandon  apathetically,  ** 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  329 

he  slowly  gathered  his  papers  together,  and  deposited  them  in 
a  drawer. 

"Indeed  it  is  true;  and  what  is  more,  Brandon,  this  fellow 
is  one  of  the  very  identical  highwaymen  who  robbed  me  on 
my  road  from  Bath.  No  doubt  he  did  me  the  same  kind 
office  on  my  road  to  Mauleverer  Park." 

"Possibly,"  said  Brandon,  who  appeared  absorbed  in  a  revery. 

"Ay!"  answered  Mauleverer,  piqued  at  this  indifference. 
"But  do  you  not  see  the  consequences  to  your  niece?" 

"My  niece!"  repeated  Brandon  rousing  himself. 

"Certainly.  I  grieve  to  say  it,  my  dear  friend, — but  she  was 
young,  very  young,  when  at  Bath.  She  suffered  this  fellow  to 
address  her  too  openly.  Nay, — for  I  will  be  frank, — she  was 
suspected  of  being  in  love  with  him!" 

"She  was  in  love  with  him,"  said  Brandon  dryly,  and  fixing 
the  malignant  coldness  of  his  eye  upon  the  suitor.  "And,  for 
aught  I  know,"  added  he,  "she  is  so  at  this  moment." 

"You  are  cruel!"  said  Mauleverer,  disconcerted.  "I  trust 
not,  for  the  sake  of  my  continued  addresses." 

"My  dear  lord,"  said  Brandon  urbanely,  taking  the  court- 
ier's hand,  while  the  anguisin  herbd  of  his  sneer  played  around 
his  compressed  lips, — '  'my  dear  lord,  we  are  old  friends,  and 
need  not  deceive  each  other.  You  wish  to  marry  my  niece, 
because  she  is  an  heiress  of  great  fortune,  and  you  suppose 
that  my  wealth  will  in  all  probability  swell  her  own.  More- 
over, she  is  more  beautiful  than  any  other  young  lady  of  your 
acquaintance ;  and,  polished  by  your  example,  may  do  honor 
to  your  taste  as  well  as  your  prudence.  Under  these  circum- 
stances you  will,  I  am  quite  sure,  look  with  lenity  on  her  girl- 
ish errors,  and  not  love  her  the  less  because  her  foolish  fancy 
persuades  her  that  she  is  in  love  with  another." 

"Ahem!"  said  Mauleverer,  "you  view  the  matter  with  more 
sense  than  sentiment ;  but  look  you,  Brandon,  we  must  try,  for 
both  our  sakes,  if  possible,  to  keep  the  identity  of  Lovett  with 
Clifford  from  being  known.  I  do  not  see  why  it  should  be. 
No  doubt  he  was  on  his  guard  while  playing  the  gallant,  and 
committed  no  atrocity  at  Bath.  The  name  of  Clifford  is 
hitherto  perfectly  unsullied.  No  fraud,  no  violence  are  at- 
tached to  the  appellation ;  and  if  the  rogue  will  but  keep  his 
own  counsel,  we  may  hang  him  out  of  the  way  without  the  se- 
cret transpiring." 

"But,  if  I  remember  right,"  said  Brandon,  "the  newspapers 
say  that  this  Lovett  will  be  tried  some  seventy  or  eighty  miles 
only  from  Bath,  and  that  gives  a  chance  of  recognition." 


330  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

"Ay,  but  he  will  be  devilishly  altered,  I  imagine;  for  his 
wound  has  already  been  but  a  bad  beautifier  to  his  face:  more- 
over, if  the  dog  has  any  delicacy,  he  will  naturally  dislike  to 
be  known  as  the  gallant  of  that  gay  city,  where  he  shone  so 
successfully,  and  will  disguise  himself  as  well  as  he  is  able.  I 
hear  wonders  of  his  powers  of  self-transformation." 

"But  he  may  commit  himself  on  the  point  between  this  and 
his  trial,"  said  Brandon. 

"I  think  of  ascertaining  how  far  that  is  likely,  by  sending 
my  valet  down  to  him  (you  know  one  treats  these  gentlemen 
highwaymen  with  a  certain  consideration,  and  hangs  them  with 
all  due  respect  to  their  feelings),  to  hint  that  it  will  be  doubt- 
less very  unpleasant  to  him,,  under  his  'present  unfortunate  cir- 
cumstances' (is  not  that  the  phrase?),  to  be  known  as  the  gen- 
tleman who  enjoyed  so  deserved  a  popularity  at  Bath,  and  that 
though  'the  laws  of  my  country  compel  me'  to  prosecute  him, 
yet,  should  he  desire  it,  he  may  be  certain  that  I  will  preserve 
his  secret. — Come,  Brandon,  what  say  you  to  that  manoeuvre? 
it  will  answer  my  purpose,  and  make  the  gentleman— for  doubt- 
less he  is  all  sensibility — shed  tears  at  my  generous  forbearance!" 

"It  is  no  bad  idea,"  said  Brandon.  "I  commend  you  for  it. 
At  all  events,  it  is  necessary  that  my  niece  should  not  know 
the  situation  of  her  lover.  She  is  a  girl  of  a  singular  turn  of 
mind,  and  fortune  has  made  her  independent.  Who  knows 
but  what  she  might  commit  some  folly  or  another,  write  peti- 
tions to  the  King,  and  beg  me  to  present  them,  or  go — for  she 
has  a  world  of  romance  in  her — to  prison,  to  console  him;  or, 
at  all  events,  she  would  beg  my  kind  offices  on  his  behalf — 
a  request  peculiarly  awkward,  as  in  all  probability  I  shall  have 
the  honor  of  trying  him." 

"Ay,  by  the  by,  so  you  will.  And  I  fancy  the  poor  rogue's 
audacity  will  not  cause  you  to  be  less  severe  than  you  usually 
are.  They  say  you  promise  to  make  more  human  pendulums 
than  any  of  your  brethren." 

"They  do  say  that,  do  they?"  said  Brandon.  "Well,  Town 
I  have  a  bile  against  my  species ;  I  loathe  their  folly  and  their 
half  vices.  ' Ridet  et  odif  *  is  my  motto ;  and  I  allow,  that  it 
is  not  the  philosophy  that  makes  men  merciful!" 

"Well,  Juvenal's  wisdom  be  yours! — mine  be  Horace's!" 
rejoined  Mauleverer,  as  he  picked  his  teeth ;  "but  I  am  glad 
you  see  the  absolute  necessity  of  keeping  this  secret  from  Lucy's 
suspicion.  She  never  reads  the  papers,  I  suppose? — Girls 
never  do!" 

*   He  laughs  and  hates. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  33! 

"No!  and  I  will  take  care  not  to  have  them  thrown  in  heh 
way;  and  as,  in  consequence  of  my  poor  brother's  recent 
death,  she  sees  nobody  but  us,  there  is  little  chance,  should 
Lovett's  right  to  the  name  of  Clifford  be  discovered,  that  it 
should  reach  her  ears!" 

"But  those  confounded  servants?" 

"True  enough!  but  consider,  that  before  they  know  it,  the 
newspapers  will;  so  that,  should  it  be  needful,  we  shall  have 
our  own  time  to  caution  them.  I  need  only  say  to  Lucy's 
woman,  'A  poor  gentleman,  a  friend  of  the  late  squire's,  whom 
your  mistress  used  to  dance  with,  and  you  must  have  seen — 
Captain  Clifford — is  to  be  tried  for  his  life:  it  will  shock  her, 
poor  thing !  in  her  present  state  of  health,  to  tell  her  of  so  sad 
an  event  to  her  father's  friend ;  therefore  be  silent,  as  you  value 
your  place  and  ten  guineas,' — and  I  may  be  tolerably  sure  of 
caution!" 

"You  ought  to  be  chairman  to  the  'ways  and  means'  com- 
mittee ! "  cried  Mauleverer.  ' 'My  mind  is  now  easy ;  and  when 
once  poor  Clifford  is  gone — 'fallen  from  a  high  estate, ' — we 
may  break  the  matter  gently  to  her ;  and,  as  I  intend  thereon 
to  be  very  respectful,  very  delicate,  etc.,  she  cannot  but  be  sen- 
sible of  my  kindness  and  real  affection!" 

"And  if  a  live  dog  be  better  than  a  dead  lion,"  added  Bran- 
don, "surely  a  lord  in  existence  will  be  better  than  a  highway- 
man hanged!" 

"According  to  ordinary  logic,"  rejoined  Mauleverer,  "that 
syllogism  is  clear  enough ;  and  though  I  believe  a  girl  may  cling, 
now  and  then,  to  the  memory  of  a  departed  lover,  I  do  not 
think  she  will,  when  the  memory  is  allied  with  shame.  Love  is 
nothing  more  than  vanity  pleased;  wound  the  vanity,  and  you 
destroy  the  love!  Lucy  will  be  forced,  after  having  made  so 
bad  a  choice  of  a  lover,  to  make  a  good  one  in  a  husband, — in 
order  to  recover  her  self-esteem!" 

"And  therefore _jw/  are  certain  of  her!"  said  Brandon  iron- 
ically. 

"Thanks  to  my  star — my  garter — my  ancestor,  the  first 
baron,  and  myself,  the  first  earl — I  hope  I  am,"  said  Maul- 
everer, and  the  conversation  turned.  Mauleverer  did  not  stay 
much  longer  with  the  judge ;  and  Brandon,  left  alone,  recurred 
once  more  to  the  perusal  of  his  letters. 

We  scarcely  know  what  sensations  it  would  have  occasioned 
in  one  who  had  known  Brandon  only  in  his  later  years,  could 
he  have  read  those  letters,  referring  to  so  much  earlier  a  date. 
There  was  in  the  keen  and  arid  character  of  the  man  so  little 


332  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

that  recalled  any  idea  of  courtship  or  youthful  gallantry,  that  a 
correspondence  of  that  nature  would  have  appeared  almost  as 
unnatural  as  the  loves  of  plants,  or  the  amatory  softenings  of  a 
mineral.  The  correspondence  now  before  Brandon  was  de- 
scriptive of  various  feelings,  but  all  appertaining  to  the  same 
class:  most  of  them  were  apparent  answers  to  letters  from  him. 
One  while  they  replied  tenderly  to  expressions  of  tenderness, 
but  intimated  a  doubt  whether  the  writer  would  be  able  to  con- 
stitute his  future  happiness,  and  atone  for  certain  sacrifices  of 
birth  and  fortune,  and  ambitious  prospects,  to  which  she 
alluded:  at  other  times,  a  vein  of  latent  coquetry  seemed  to 
pervade  the  style — an  indescribable  air  of  coolness  and  reserve 
contrasted  former  passages  in  the  correspondence,  and  was 
calculated  to  convey  to  the  reader  an  impression  that  the  feel- 
ings of  the  lover  were  not  altogether  adequately  returned.  Fre- 
quently the  writer,  as  if  Brandon  had  expressed  himself  sensi- 
ble of  this  conviction,  reproached  him  for  unjust  jealousy  and 
unworthy  suspicion.  And  the  tone  of  the  reproach  varied  in 
each  letter:  sometimes  it  was  gay  and  satirizing;  at  others,  soft 
and  expostulatory ;  at  others,  gravely  reasoning ;  and  often, 
haughtily  indignant.  Still,  throughout  the  whole  correspon- 
dence, on  the  part  of  the  mistress,  there  was  sufficient  stamp 
of  individuality  to  give  a  shrewd  examiner  some  probable  guess 
at  the  writer's  character.  He  would  have  judged  her,  perhaps, 
capable  of  strong  and  ardent  feeling,  but  ordinarily  of  a  light 
and  capricious  turn,  and  seemingly  prone  to  imagine  and  to 
resent  offence.  With  these  letters  were  mingled  others  in  Bran- 
don's writing — of  how  different,  of  how  impassioned  a  descrip- 
tion !  All  that  a  deep,  proud,  meditative,  exacting  character 
could  dream  of  love  given,  or  require  of  love  returned,  was 
poured  burningly  over  the  pages ;  yet  they  were  full  of  re- 
proach, of  jealousy,  of  a  nice  and  torturing  observation,  as  cal- 
culated to  wound  as  the  ardor  might  be  fitted  to  charm ;  and 
often  the  bitter  tendency  to  disdain  that  distinguished  his  tem- 
perament broke  through  the  fondest  enthusiasm  of  courtship,  or 
the  softest  outpourings  of  love.  "You  saw  me  not  yesterday, " 
he  wrote  in  one  letter,  "but  I  saw  you;  all  day  I  was  by  you; 
you  gave  not  a  look  which  passed  me  unnoticed ;  you  made  not 
a  movement  which  I  did  not  chronicle  in  my  memory.  Julia, 
do  you  tremble  when  1  tell  you  this?  Yes,  if  you  have  a  heart, 
I  know  these  words  would  stab  it  to  the  core!  You  may  affect 
to  answer  me  indignantly!  Wise  dissembler! — it  is  very  skil- 
ful— very,  to  assume  anger  when  you  have  no  reply.  I  repeat, 
during  the  whole  of  that  party  of  pleasure — (pleasure!  well, 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  333 

your  tastes,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  are  exquisite!)  which  you 
enjoyed  yesterday,  and  which  you  so  faintly  asked  me  to  share, 
my  eye  was  on  you.  You  did  not  know  that  I  was  in  the  wood 
when  you  took  the  arm  of  the  incomparable  Digby,  with  so 
pretty  a  semblance  of  alarm  at  the  moment  the  snake,  which  my 
foot  disturbed,  glided  across  your  path.  You  did  not  know  I 
was  within  hearing  of  the  tent  where  you  made  so  agreeable  a 
repast,  and  from  which  your  laughter  sent  peals  so  merry  and  so 
numerous.  Laughter!  O,  Julia,  can  you  tell  me  that  you  love 
and  yet  be  happy,  even  to  mirth,  when  I  am  away?  Love !  O 
God,  how  different  a  sensation  is  mine!  Mine  makes  my  whole 
principle  of  life !  Yours !  I  tell  you,  that  I  think,  at  moments, 
I  would  rather  have  your  hate  than  the  lukewarm  sentiment 
you  bear  to  me,  and  honor  by  the  name  of  'affection.'  Pretty 
phrase!  I  have  no  affection  for  you!  Give  me  not  that  sickly 
word ;  but  try  with  me,  Julia,  to  invent  some  expression  that 
has  never  filtered  a  paltry  meaning  through  the  lips  of  another! 
Affection !  why  that  is  a  sister's  word — a  girl's  word  to  her  pet 
squirrel !  never  was  it  made  for  that  ruby  and  most  ripe  mouth ! 
Shall  I  come  to  your  house  this  evening?  Your  mother  has 
asked  me,  and  you — -you  heard  her,  and  said  nothing.  Oh! 
but  that  was  maiden  reserve — was  it  ?  and  maiden  reserve  caused 
you  to  take  up  a  book  the  moment  I  left  you,  as  if  my  company 
made  but  an  ordinary  amusement,  instantly  to  be  replaced  by 
another!  When  /have  seen  you,  society,  books,  food,  all  are 
hateful  to  me;  but  you,  sweet  Julia,  you  can  read,  can  you? 
Why,  when  /  left  you,  I  lingered  by  the  parlor  window  for 
hours,  till  dusk,  and  you  never  once  lifted  your  eyes,  nor  saw 
me  pass  and  repass.  At  least,  I  thought  you  would  have 
watched  my  steps  when  I  left  the  house ;  but  I  err,  charming 
moralist !  According  to  you,  that  vigilance  would  have  been 
meanness." 

In  another  part  of  the  correspondence,  a  more  grave,  if  not  a 
deeper,  gush  of  feeling  struggled  for  expression. 

"You  say,  Julia,  that  were  you  to  marry  one  who  thinks  so 
much  of  what  he  surrenders  for  you,  and  who  requires  from 
yourself  so  vast  a  return  of  love,  you  should  tremble  for  the 
future  happiness  of  both  of  us.  Julia,  the  triteness  of  that  fear 
proves  that  you  love  not  at  all.  I  do  not  tremble  for  our  future 
happiness ;  on  the  contrary,  the  intensity  of  my  passion  for  you 
makes  me  know  that  we  never  can  be  happy !  never  beyond 
the  first  rapture  of  our  union.  Happiness  is  a  quiet  and  tran- 
quil feeling.  No  feeling  that  I  can  possibly  bear  to  you  will 
ever  receive  those  epithets, — I  know  that  I  shall  be  wretched 


334  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

and  accursed  when  I  am  united  to  you.  Start  not ;  I  will  pre- 
sently tell  you  why.  But  I  do  not  dream  of  happiness,  neither 
(could  you  fathom  one  drop  of  the  dark  and  limitless  ocean  of 
my  emotions)  would  you  name  to  me  that  word.  It  is  not  the 
mercantile  and  callous  calculation  of  chances  for 'future  felicity' 
(what  homily  supplied  you  with  so  choice  a  term?)  that  enters 
into  the  heart  that  cherishes  an  all-pervading  love.  Passion 
looks  only  to  one  object,  to  nothing  beyond, — I  thirst,  I  con- 
sume, not  for  happiness,  but  you.  Were  your  possession  inev- 
itably to  lead  me  to  a  gulf  of  anguish  and  shame,  think  you,  I 
should  covet  it  one  jot  the  less?  If  you  carry  one  thought, 
one  hope,  one  dim  fancy,  beyond  the  event  that  makes  you 
mine,  you  may  be  more  worthy  of  the  esteem  of  others;  but 
you  are  utterly  undeserving  of  my  love. 


"I  will  tell  you  now  why  I  know  we  cannot  be  happy.  In 
the  first  place,  when  you  say  that  I  am  proud  of  birth,  that  I 
am  morbidly  ambitious,  that  I  am  anxious  to  shine  in  the  great 
world,  and  that  after  the  first  intoxication  of  love  has  passed 
away  I  shall  feel  bitterness  against  one  who  has  so  humbled 
my  pride  and  darkened  my  prospects,  I  am  not  sure  that  you 
wholly  err.  But  I  am  sure  that  the  instant  remedy  is  in  your 
power.  Have  you  patience,  Julia,  to  listen  to  a  kind  of  his- 
tory of  myself,  or  rather  of  my  feelings?  if  so,  perhaps  it  may  be 
the  best  method  of  explaining  all  that  I  would  convey.  You 
will  see,  then,  that  my  family  pride  and  my  worldly  ambition 
are  not  founded  altogether  on  those  basements  which  move  my 
laughter  in  another:  if  my  feelings  thereon  are  really,  however, 
as  you  would  insinuate,  equal  matter  for  derision,  behold,  my 
Julia,  I  can  laugh  equally  at  them !  So  pleasant  a  thing  to  me 
is  scorn,  that  I  would  rather  despise  myself  than  have  no  one 
to  despise;  but  to  my  narrative!  You  must  know  that  there 
are  but  two  of  us,  sons  of  a  country  squire,  of  old  family,  which 
once  possessed  large  possessions  and  something  of  historical 
renown.  We  lived  in  an  old  country  place;  my  father  was  a 
convivial  dog,  a  fox-hunter,  a  drunkard,  yet  in  his  way  a  fine  gen- 
tleman,— and  a  very  disreputable  member  of  society.  The  first 
feelings  towards  him  that  I  can  remember  were  those  of  shame. 
Not  much  matter  of  family  pride  here,  you  will  say !  True, 
and  that  is  exactly  the  reason  which  made  me  cherish  family 
pride  elsewhere.  My  father's  house  was  filled  with  guests, 
some  high  and  some  low, — they  all  united  in  ridicule  of  the 
host,  I  soon  detected  the  laughter,  and  you  may  imagine  that 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  J3^ 

it  did  not  please  me.  Meanwhile  the  old  huntsman,  whose 
family  was  about  as  ancient  as  ours,  and  whose  ancestors  had 
officiated  in  his  capacity  for  the  ancestors  of  his  master  time 
out  of  mind,  told  me  story  after  story  about  the  Brandons  of 
yore.  I  turned  from  the  stories  to  more  legitimate  history,  and 
found  the  legends  were  tolerably  true.  I  learned  to  glow  at 
this  discovery:  the  pride— humbled  when  I  remembered  my 
sire — revived  when  I  remembered  my  ancestors ;  I  became  re- 
solved to  emulate  them,  to  restore  a  sunken  name,  and  vowed 
a  world  of  nonsense  on  the  subject.  The  habit  of  brooding 
over  these  ideas  grew  on  me ;  I  never  heard  a  jest  broken  on 
my  paternal  guardian — I  never  caught  the  maudlin  look  of  his 
reeling  eyes,  nor  listened  to  some  exquisite  inanity  from  his 
besotted  lips,  but  what  my  thoughts  flew  instantly  back  to  the  Sir 
Charleses  and  the  Sir  Roberts  of  my  race,  and  I  comforted  my- 
self with  the  hope  that  the  present  degeneracy  should  pass  away. 
Hence,  Julia,  my  family  pride;  hence,  too,  another  feeling 
you  dislike  in  me, — disdain!  I  first  learned  to  despise  my 
father,  the  host,  and  I  then  despised  my  acquaintances,  his 
guests ;  for  I  saw,  while  they  laughed  at  him,  that  they  flattered, 
and  that  their  merriment  was  not  the  only  thing  suffered  to  feed 
at  his  expense.  Thus  contempt  grew  up  with  me,  and  I  had 
nothing  to  check  it;  for  when  I  looked  around  I  saw  not  one 
living  thing  that  I  could  respect.  This  father  of  mine  had  the 
sense  to  think  I  was  no  idiot.  He  was  proud  (poor  man!)  of 
'my  talents,'  viz.,  of  prizes  won  at  school,  and  congratulatory 
letters  from  my  masters.  He  sent  me  to  college:  my  mind 
took  a  leap  there:  I  will  tell  you,  prettiest,  what  it  was!  Be- 
fore I  went  thither  I  had  some  fine  vague  visions  about  virtue. 
I  thought  to  revive  my  ancestral  honors  by  being  good;  in 
short,  I  was  an  embryo  King  Pepin.  I  awoke  from  this  dream 
at  the  university.  There,  for  the  first  time,  I  perceived  the 
real  consequence  of  rank. 

"At  school,  you  know,  Julia,  boys  care  nothing  for  a  lord. 
A  good  cricketer,  an  excellent  fellow,  is  worth  all  the  earls  in 
the  peerage.  But  at  college  all  thai  ceases:  bats  and  balls  sink 
into  the  nothingness  in  which  corals  and  bells  had  sunk  before. 
One  grows  manly,  and  worships  coronets  and  carriages.  I  saw- 
it  was  a  fine  thing  to  get  a  prize,  but  it  was  ten  times  a  finer  thing 
to  get  drunk  with  a  peer.  So,  when  I  had  done  the  first,  my 
resolve  to  be  worthy  of  my  sires  made  me  do  the  second — not, 
indeed,  exactly;  I  never  got  drunk;  my  father  disgusted  me 
with  that  vice  betimes.  To  his  gluttony  I  owe  my  vegetable 
diet,  and  to  his  inebriety  my  addiction  to  water.  No ;  I  did 


33^>  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

not  get  drunk  with  peers:  but  I  was  just  as  agreeable  to  them 
as  if  I  had  been  equally  embruted.  I  knew  intimately  all  the 
'Hats'*  in  the  university,  and  I  was  henceforth  looked  up  to  by 
the  'Caps,'  as  if  my  head  had  gained  the  height  of  every  hat 
that  I  knew.  But  I  did  not  do  this  immediately.  I  must  tell 
you  two  little  anecdotes,  that  first  initiated  me  into  the  secret 
of  real  greatness.  The  first  was  this:  I  was  sitting  at  dinner 
•>vith  some  fellows  of  a  college,  grave  men  and  clever ;  two  of 
them,  not  knowing  me,  \vere  conversing  about  me:  they  heard, 
they  said,  that  I  should  never  be  so  good  a  fellow  as  my 
father,— have  such  a  cellar,  or  keep  such  a  house." 

"  'I  have  met  six  earls  there  and  a  marquess,'  quoth  the 
other  senior. 

'  'And  his  son,'  returned  the  first  don,  'only  keeps  company 
with  sizars,  I  believe.' 

'  'So  then,'  said  I  to  myself,  'to  deserve  the  praise  even  of 
clever  men,  one  must  have  good  wines,  know  plenty  of  earls, 
and  forswear  sizars." 

"Nothing  could  be  truer  than  my  conclusion. 

"Anecdote  the  second  is  this:  On  the  day  I  gained  a  high 
university  prize,  I  invited  my  friends  to  dine  with  me:  four  of 
them  refused,  because  they  were  engaged  (they  had  been  asked 
since  I  asked  them) — to  whom?  the  richest  man  at  the  univer- 
sity. These  occurrences  happening  at  the  same  time,  threw  me 
into  a  profound  revery:  I  awoke,  and  became  a  man  of  the 
world.  I  no  longer  resolved  to  be  virtuous,  and  to  hunt  after 
the  glory  of  your  Romans  and  your  Athenians — I  resolved  to 
become  rich,  powerful,  and  of  worldly  repute. 

"I  abjured  my  honest  sizars,  and,  as  I  said  before,  I  courted 
some  rich  'Hats.'  Behold  my  first  grand  step  in  the  world!  I 
became  the  parasite  and  the  flatterer.  What!  would  my  pride 
suffer  this?  Verily  yes,  my  pride  delighted  in  it ;  for  it  soothed 
my  spirit  of  contempt  to  put  these  fine  fellows  to  my  use!  it 
soothed  me  to  see  how  easily  I  could  cajole  them,  and  to  what 
a  variety  of  purposes  I  could  apply  even  the  wearisome  disgust 
of  their  acquaintance.  Nothing  is  so  foolish  as  to  say  the  idle 
great  are  of  no  use;  they  can  be  put  to  any  use  whatsoever  that 
a  wise  man  is  inclined  to  make  of  them!  Well,  Julia,  lo!  my  char- 
acter already  formed ;  family  pride,  disdain,  and  worldly  ambi- 
tion,— there  it  is  for  you  ;  after-circumstances  only  strengthened 
the  impression  already  made.  I  desired,  on  leaving  college, 
to  go  abroad ;  my  father  had  no  money  to  give  me.  What  sig- 

*  At  Cambridge  the  sons  of  noblemen,  and  the  eldest  sons  of  baronets,   are  allowed  to 
wear  hats  instead  of  the  academical  cap. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  337 

nified  that?  I  looked  carelessly  round  for  some  wealthier  con- 
venience than  the  paternal  hoard:  I  found  it  in  a  Lord  Maul- 
everer;  he  had  been  at  college  with  me,  and  I  endured  him 
easily  as  a  companion, — for  he  had  accomplishments,  wit,  and 
good-nature ;  I  made  him  wish  to  go  abroad,  and  I  made  him 
think  he  should  die  of  ennui  if  I  did  not  accompany  him.  To 
his  request  to  that  effect,  I  reluctantly  agreed,  and  saw  every- 
thing in  Europe,  which  he  neglected  to  see,  at  his  expense. 
What  amused  me  the  most  was  the  perception  that  I,  the  para- 
site, was  respected  by  him ;  and  he,  the  patron,  was  ridiculed 
by  me!  It  would  not  have  been  so  if  I  had  depended  on  'my 
virtue.'  Well,  sweetest  Julia,  the  world,  as  I  have  said,  gave 
to  my  college  experience  a  sacred  authority.  I  returned  to 
England,  and  my  father  died,  leaving  to  me  not  a  sixpence, 
and  to  my  brother  an  estate  so  mortgaged  that  he  could  not 
enjoy  it,  and  so  restricted  that  he  could  not  sell  it.  It  was  now 
the  time  for  me  to  profit  by  the  experience  I  boasted  of.  I  saw 
that  it  was  necessary  I  should  take  some  profession.  Profes- 
sions are  the  masks  to  your  pauper-rogue ;  they  give  respecta- 
bility to  cheating,  and  a  diploma  to  feed  upon  others.  I  ana- 
lyzed my  talents,  and  looked  to  the  customs  of  my  country:  the 
result  was  my  resolution  to  take  to  the  bar.  I  had  an  inex- 
haustible power  of  application  ;  I  was  keen,  shrewd,  and  auda- 
cious. All  these  qualities  'tell'  at  the  courts  of  justice.  I  kept 
my  legitimate  number  of  terms, — I  was  called, — I  went  to  the 
circuit, — I  obtained  not  a  brief — not  a  brief,  Julia !  My  health, 
never  robust,  gave  way  beneath  study  and  irritation;  I  was 
ordered  to  betake  myself  to  the  country ;  I  came  to  this  village, 
as  one  both  salubrious  and  obscure.  I  lodged  in  the  house  of 
your  aunt, — you  came  thither  daily, — I  saw  you, — you  know  the 
rest.  But  where,  all  this  time,  were  my  noble  friends,  you 
will  say?  'Sdeath,  since  we  had  left  college,  they  had  learned 
a  little  of  the  wisdom  I  had  then  possessed ;  they  were  not  dis- 
posed to  give  something  for  nothing ;  they  had  younger  brothers, 
and  cousins,  and  mistresses,  and,  for  aught  I  know,  children  to 
provide  for.  Besides,  they  had  their  own  expenses:  the  richer 
a  man  is,  the  less  he  has  to  give.  One  of  them  would  have  be- 
stowed on  me  a  living,  if  I  had  gone  in  the  church:  another,  a 
commission,  if  I  had  joined  his  regiment.  But  I  knew  the  day 
was  past  both  for  priest  and  spldier ;  and  it  was  not  merely  to 
live,  no,  nor  to  live  comfortably,  but  to  enjoy  power,  that  I 
desired ;  so  I  declined  these  offers.  Others  of  my  friends 
would  have  been  delighted  to  have  kept  me  in  their  house,  feast- 
ed me,  joked  with  me,  rode  with  me,  and  nothing  more!  But 


338  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

I  had  already  the  sense  to  see,  that  if  a  man  dances  himself 
into  distinction,  it  is  never  by  the  steps  of  attendance.  One 
must  receive  favors  and  court  patronage,  but  it  must  be  with 
the  air  of  an  independent  man.  My  old  friends  thus  rendered 
useless,  my  legal  studies  forbade  me  to  make  new,  nay,  they 
even  estranged  me  from  the  old;  for  people  may  say  what  they 
please  about  a  similarity  of  opinions  being  necessary  to  friend- 
ship,— a  similarity  of  habits  is  much  more  so.  It  is  the  man 
you  dine,  breakfast,  and  lodge  with,  walk,  ride,  gamble,  or 
thieve  with,  that  is  your  friend;  not  the  man  who  likes  Virgil 
as  well  as  you  do,  and  agrees  with  you  in  an  admiration  of 
Handel. 

"Meanwhile,  my  chief  prey,  Lord  Matileverer,  was  gone; 
he  had  taken  another  man's  dulcinea,  and  sought  out  a 
bovver  in  Italy;  from  that  time  to  this,  I  have  never  heard  of 
him  nor  seen  him;  I  know  not  even  his  address.  With  the 
exception  of  a  few  stray  gleanings  from  my  brother,  who,  good 
easy  man!  I  could  plunder  more,  were  I  not  resolved  not  to 
ruin  the  family  stock,  I  have  been  thrown  on  myself ;  the  result 
is,  that,  though  as  clever  as  my  fellows,  I  have  narrowly 
shunned  starvation:  had  my  wants  been  less  simple,  there  would 
have  been  no  shunning  in  the  case.  But  a  man  is  not  easily 
starved  who  drinks  water,  and  eats  by  the  ounce.  A  more 
effectual  fate  might  have  befallen  me:  disappointment,  wrath, 
baffled  hope,  mortified  pride,  all  these,  which  gnawed  at  my 
heart,  might  have  consumed  it  long  ago ;  I  might  have  fretted 
away  as  a  garment  which  the  moth  eateth,  had  it  not  been  for 
that  fund  of  obstinate  and  iron  hardness,  which  nature, — I  beg 
pardon,  there  is  no  nature, — circumstance  bestowed  upon  me. 
This  has  borne  me  up,  and  will  bear  me  yet  through  time,  and 
shame,  and  bodily  weakness,  and  mental  fever,  until  my  ambi- 
tion has  won  a  certain  height,  and  my  disdain  of  human  petti- 
ness rioted  in  the  external  sources  of  fortune,  as  well  as  an  in- 
ward fountain  of  bitter  and  self-fed  consolation.  Yet,  oh, 
Julia!  I  know  not  if  even  this  would  have  supported  me,  if  at 
that  epoch  of  life,  when  I  was  most  wounded,  most  stricken  in 
body,  most  soured  in  mind,  my  heart  had  not  met  and  fastened 
itself  to  yours:  I  saw  you,  loved  you,  and  life  became  to  me  a  new 
object.  Even  now,  as  I  write  to  you,  all  my  bitterness,  my 
pride,  vanish ;  everything  I  have  longed  for  disappears ;  my 
very  ambition  is  gone.  I  have  no  hope  but  for  you,  Julia; 
beautiful,  adored  Julia! — when  I  love  you,  I  love  even  my  kind. 
Oh,  you  know  not  the  power  you  possess  over  me!  Do  not 
betray  it:  you  can  yet  make  ma  all  that  my  boyhood  once 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  339 

dreamed;  or  you  can  harden  every  thought,  feeling,  sensation, 
into  stone. 

******** 

"I  was  to  tell  you  why  I  look  not  for  happiness  in  our  union. 
You  have  now  seen  my  nature.  You  have  traced  the  history 
of  my  life,  by  tracing  the  history  of  my  character.  You  see 
what  I  surrender  in  gaining  you.  I  do  not  deny  the  sacrifice. 
I  surrender  the  very  essentials  of  my  present  mind  and  soul. 
I  cease  to  be  worldly.  I  cannot  raise  myself,  I  cannot  revive 
my  ancestral  name:  nay,  I  shall  relinquish  it  forever.  I 
shall  adopt  a  disguised  appellation.  I  shall  sink  into  another 
grade  of  life.  In  some  remote  village,  by  means  of  some  hum- 
bler profession  than  that  I  now  follow,  we  must  earn  our  sub- 
sistence, and  smile  at  ambition.  I  tell  you  frankly,  Julia,  when 
I  close  the  eyes  of  my  heart, — when  I  shut  you  from  my  gaze, 
this  sacrifice  appals  me.  But  even  then  you  force  yourself  be- 
fore me,  and  I  feel  that  one  glance  from  your  eye  is  more  to 
me  than  all.  If  you  could  bear  with  me, — if  you  could  soothe 
me, — if  when  a  cloud  is  on  me  you  could  suffer  it  to  pass  away 
unnoticed,  and  smile  on  me  the  moment  it  is  gone,  oh,  Julia! 
there  would  be  then  no  extreme  of  poverty, — no  abasement  of 
fortune, — no  abandonment  of  early  dreams  which  would  not 
seem  to  me  rapture  if  coupled  with  the  bliss  of  knowing  that 
you  are  mine.  Never  should  my  lip — never  should  my  eye  tell 
you  that  there  is  that  thing  on  earth  for  which  I  repine,  or 
which  I  could  desire.  No,  Julia,  could  I  flatter  my  heart  with 
this  hope  you  would  not  find  me  dream  of  unhappiness  and  you 
united.  But  I  tremble,  Julia,  when  I  think  of  your  temper 
and  my  own:  you  will  conceive  a  gloomy  look  from  one  never 
mirthful  is  an  insult;  and  you  will  feel  every  vent  of  passion  on 
Fortune  or  on  other's  as  a  reproach  to  you.  Then,  too,  you 
cannot  enter  into  my  nature;  you  cannot  descend  into  its  cav- 
erns ;  you  cannot  behold,  much  less  can  you  deign  to  lull,  the  ex* 
acting  and  lynx-eyed  jealousy  that  dwells  there.  Sweetest  Julia ! 
every  breath  of  yours,  every  touch  of  yours,  every  look  of  yours 
I  yearn  for  beyond  all  a  mother's  longing  for  the  child  that  has 
been  torn  from  her  for  years.  Your  head  leaned  upon  an  old 

tree  (do  you  remember  it  near ?),  and  I  went  every  day, 

after  seeing  you,  to  kiss  it.  Do  you  wonder  that  I  am  jealous? 
How  can  I  love  you  as  I  do  and  be  otherwise?  My  whole 
being  is  intoxicated  with  you! 

******** 
"This,  then,  your  pride  and  mine,  your  pleasure  in  the  admi- 


34&  PAUL  CLIFFORD. 

ration  of  others,  your  lightness,  Julia,  make  me  foresee  an  eternal 
and  gushing  source  of  torture  to  my  mind.  I  care  not, — I 
care  for  nothing  so  that  you  are  mine,  if  but  for  one  hour." 

It  seems  that,  despite  the  strange,  sometimes  the  unlover-like 
and  fiercely  selfish  nature  of  these  letters  from  Brandon,  some- 
thing of  a  genuine  tone  of  passion, — perhaps  their  originality, — 
aided  no  doubt,  by  some  uttered  eloquence  of  the  writer,  and  some 
treacherous  inclination  on  the  part  of  the  mistress,  ultimately 
conquered ;  and  that  a  union  so  little  likely  to  receive  the  smile 
of  a  prosperous  star  was  at  length  concluded.  The  letter  which 
terminated  the  correspondence  was  from  Brandon:  it  was 
written  on  the  evening  before  the  marriage,  which,  it  appeared 
by  the  same  letter,  was  to  be  private  and  concealed.  After  a 
rapturous  burst  of  hope  and  joy,  it  continued  thus: 

"Yes,  Julia,  I  recant  my  words:  I  have  no  belief  that  you 
or  I  shall  ever  have  cause  hereafter  for  unhappiness.  Those 
eyes  that  dwelt  so  tenderly  on  mine;  that  hand  whose  pressure 
lingers  yet  in  every  nerve  of  my  frame;  those  lips  turned  so 
coyly,  yet,  shall  I  say,  reluctantly?  from  me ;  all  tell  me  that 
you  love  me;  and  my  fears  are  banished.  Love,  which  con- 
quered my  nature,  will  conquer  the  only  thing  I  would  desire 
to  see  altered  in  yours.  Nothing  could  ever  make  me  adore 
you  less,  though  you  affect  to  dread  it ;  nothing  but  a  knowl- 
edge that  you  are  unworthy  of  me,  that  you  have  a  thought 
for  another, — then  I  should  not  hate  you.  No:  the  privilege 
of  my  past  existence  would  revive ;  I  should  revel  in  a  luxury 
of  contempt,  I  should  despise  you,  I  should  mock  you,  and  I 
should  be  once  more  what  I  was  before  I  knew  you.  But  why 
do  I  talk  thus?  My  bride,  my  blessing,  forgive  me!" 


In  concluding  our  extracts  from  this  correspondence,  we  wish 
the  reader  to  note,  first,  that  the  love  professed  by  Brandon 
seems  of  that  vehement  and  corporeal  nature,  which,  while  it 
is  often  the  least  durable,  is  also  the  most  susceptible  of  the 
fiercest  extremes  of  hatred,  or  even  of  disgust.  Secondly, 
that  the  character  opened  by  this  sarcastic  candor  evidently  re- 
quired in  a  mistress  either  an  utter  devotion  or  a  skilful  address. 
And  thirdly,  that  we  have  hinted  at  such  qualities  in  the  fair 
correspondent  as  did  not  seem  sanguinely  to  promise  either  of 
those  essentials. 

While  with  a  curled,  yet  often  with  a  quivering,  lip,  the  aus- 
tere and  sarcastic  Brandon  slowly  compelled  himself  to  the  task 
of  proceeding  through  these  monuments  of  former  folly  and 


CLIFFORD.  341 

youthful  emotion,  the  further  elucidation  of  those  events,  now 
rapidly  urging  on  a  fatal  and  dread  catastrophe,  spreads  before 
us  a  narrative  occurring  many  years  prior  to  the  time  at  which 
we  are  at  present  arrived. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Clem.  Lift  the  dark  veil  of  years  ! — behind — what  waits  ? 
A  human  heart.     Vast  city,  where  reside 
All  glories  and  all  vilenesses  ! — while  foul, 
Yet  silent,  through  the  roar  of  passions  rolls 
The  river  of  the  Darling  Sin — and  bears 
A  life  and  yet  a  poison  on  its  tide. 
****** 

Clem.   Thy  wife  ?— 

Viet.  Avaunt !  I've  changed  that  word  to  "  scorn  !  * 

Clem.  Thy  child?— 

Viet.  Ay,  that  strikes  home — my  child  — my  child. 

Love  and  Hatred,  by  . 

To  an  obscure  town  in shire,   there  came  to  reside  a 

young  couple,  whose  appearance  and  habits  drew  towards  them 
from  the  neighboring  gossips  a  more  than  ordinary  attention. 
They  bore  the  name  of  Welford.  The  man  assumed  the  pro- 
fession of  a  solicitor.  He  came  without  introduction  or  recom- 
mendation ;  his  manner  of  life  bespoke  poverty ;  his  address  was 
reserved,  and  even  sour;  and  despite  the  notice  and  scrutiny 
with  which  he  was  regarded,  he  gained  no  clients,  and  made  no 
lawsuits.  The  want  of  all  those  decent  charlatanisms  which 
men  of  every  profession  are  almost  necessitated  to  employ,  and 
the  sudden  and  unushered  nature  of  his  coming  were,  perhaps, 
the  cause  of  this  ill-success.  "His  house  was  too  small,"  people 
said,  "for  respectability."  And  little  good  could  be  got  from 
a  solicitor,  the  very  rails  round  whose  door  were  so  sadly  in  want 
of  repainting!  Then,  too,  Mrs.  Welford  made  a  vast  number 
of  enemies.  She  was,  beyond  all  expression,  beautiful;  and 
there  was  a  certain  coquetry  in  her  manner  which  showed  she  was 

aware  of  her  attractions.     All   the  ladies  of  hated  her. 

A  few  people  called  on  the  young  couple.  Welford  received 
them  coldly ;  their  invitations  were  unaccepted,  and,  what  was 
worse,  they  were  never  returned.  The  devil  himself  could 
not  have  supported  an  attorney  under  such  circumstan- 
ces. Reserved — shabby — poor — rude — introductionless — a  bad 
house — an  unpainted  railing — and  a  beautiful  wife !  Never- 
theless, though  Welford  was  not  employed,  he  was,  as  we  have 


34*  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

said,  watched.  On  their  first  arrival,  which  was  in  summef, 
the  young  pair  were  often  seen  walking  together  in  the  fields  or 
groves  which  surrounded  their  home.  Sometimes  they  walked 
affectionately  together,  and  it  was  observed  with  what  care 
Welford  adjusted  his  wife's  cloak  or  shawl  around  her  slender 
shape,  as  the  cool  of  the  evening  increased.  But  often  his  arm 
was  withdrawn, — he  lingered  behind,  and  they  continued  their 
walk  or  returned  homeward  in  silence  and  apart.  By  degrees 
whispers  circulated  throughout  the  town  that  the  new-married 
couple  lived  by  no  means  happily.  The  men  laid  the  fault  on 
the  stern-looking  husband ;  the  women,  on  the  minx  of  a  wife. 
However,  the  solitary  servant  whom  they  kept  declared,  that 
though  Mr.  Welford  did  sometimes  frown,  and  Mrs.  Welford  did 
sometimes  weep,  they  were  extremely  attached  to  each  other,  and 
only  quarrelled  through  love.  The  maid  had  had  four  lovers 
herself,  and  was  possibly  experienced  in  such  matters.  They 
received  no  visitors,  near  or  from  a  distance ;  and  the  post-man 
declared  he  had  never  seen  a  letter  directed  .to  either.  Thus  a 
kind  of  mystery  hung  over  the  pair,  and  made  them  still  more 
gazed  on  and  still  more  disliked — which  is  saying  a  great  deal — 
than  they  would  have  otherwise  been.  Poor  as  Welford  was, 
his  air  .and  walk  eminently  bespoke  what  common  persons  term 
gentility.  And  in  this  he  had  greatly  the  advantage  of  his 
beautiful  wife,  who,  though  there  was  certainly  nothing  vulgar 
or  plebeian  in  her  aspect,  altogether  wanted  the  refinement  of 
manner,  look,  and  phrase,  which  characterized  Welford.  For 
about  two  years  they  lived  in  this  manner,  and  so  frugally  and 
tranquilly,  that  though  Welford  had  not  any  visible  means  of 
subsistence,  no  one  could  well  wonder  in  what  manner  they  did 
subsist.  About  the  end  of  that  time,  Welford  suddenly  em- 
barked a  small  sum  in  a  county  speculation.  In  the  course  of 
this  adventure,  to  the  great  surprise  of  his  neighbors,  he 
evinced  an  extraordinary  turn  for  calculation,  and  his  habits 
plainly  bespoke  a  man  both  of  business  and  ability.  This  dis- 
posal of  capital  brought  a  sufficient  return  to  support  the  Wei- 
fords,  if  they  had  been  so  disposed,  in  rather  a  better  style 
than  heretofore.  They  remained,  however,  in  much  the  same 
state ;  and  the  only  difference  that  the  event  produced  was  the 
retirement  of  Mr.  Welford  from  the  profession  he  had  em- 
braced. He  was  no  longer  a  solicitor!  It  must  be  allowed 
that  he  resigned  no  greast  advantages  in  this  retirement.  About 

this  time  some  officers  were   quartered   at ;  and  one  of 

them,  a  handsome  lieutenant,  was  so  struck  with  the  charms  of 
Mrs.  Welford,  whom  he  saw  at  church,  that  he  lost  no  oppor- 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  343 

tunity  of  testifying  his  admiration.  It  was  maliciously,  yet  not 
unfoundedly,  remarked,  that  though  no  absolute  impropriety 
could  be  detected  in  the  manner  of  Mrs.  Welford,  she  certainly 
seemed  far  from  displeased  with  the  evident  homage  of  the 
young  lieutenant.  Ablush  tinged  her  cheek  when  she  saw 
him ;  and  the  gallant  coxcomb  asserted  that  the  blush  was  not 
always  without  a  smile.  Emboldened  by  the  interpretations 
of  his  vanity,  and  contrasting,  as  every  one  else  did,  his  own 
animated  face  and  glittering  garb  with  the  ascetic  and  gloomy 
countenance,  the  unstudied  dress,  and  austere  gait,  which 
destroyed  in  Welford  the  effect  of  a  really  handsome  person, 
our  lieutenant  thought  fit  to  express  his  passion  by  a  letter, 
which  he  conveyed  to  Mrs.  Welford's  pew.  Mrs.  Welford 
went  not  to  church  that  day ;  the  letter  was  found  by  a  good- 
natured  neighbor,  and  enclosed  anonymously  to  the  husband. 

Whatever,  in  the  secrecy  of  domestic  intercourse,  took  place 
on  this  event  was  necessarily  unknown ;  but  the  next  Sunday 
the  face  of  Mr.  Welford,  which  had  never  before  appeared  at 
church,  was  discerned  by  one  vigilant  neighbor — ^probably  the 
anonymous  friend, — not  in  the  same  pew  with  his  wife,  but  in 
a  remote  corner  of  the  sacred  house.  And  once,  when  the  lieu- 
tenant was  watching  to  read  in  Mrs.  Welford's  face  some  ans- 
wer to  his  epistle,  the  same  obliging  inspector  declared  that 
Welford's  countenance  assumed  a  sardonic  and  withering  sneer 
that  made  his  very  blood  to  creep.  However  this  be,  the  lieu- 
tenant left  his  quarters,  and  Mrs.  Welford's  reputation  re- 
mained satisfactorily  untarnished.  Shortly  after  this  the  county 
speculation  failed,  and  it  was  understood  that  the  WTelfords 
were  about  to  leave  the  town,  whither  none  knew, — some  said 
to  gaol ;  but  then,  unhappily,  no  debts  could  be  discovered. 
Their  bills  had  been  "next  to  nothing"  ;  but,  at  least,  they  had 
been  regularly  paid.  However,  before  the  rumored  emigration 
took  place,  a  circumstance  equally  wonderful  to  the  good  peo- 
ple of occurred.  One  bright  spring  morning,  a  party 

of  pleasure  from  a  great  house  in  the  vicinity  passed  through 
that  town.  Most  conspicuous  of  these  was  a  young  horseman, 
richly  dressed,  and  of  a  remarkably  showy  and  handsome  ap- 
pearance. Not  a  little  sensible  of  the  sensation  he  created,  this 
cavalier  lingered  behind  his  companions  in  order  to  eye  more 
deliberately  certain  damsels  stationed  in  a  window  and  who 
were  quite  ready  to  return  his  glances  with  interest.  At  this 
moment  the  horse,  which  was  fretting  itself  fiercely  against  the 
rein  that  restrained  it  from  its  fellows,  took  fright  at  a  knife- 
grinder,  started  violently  to  one  side,  and  the  graceful  cavalier, 


344  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

who  had  been  thinking,  not  of  the  attitude  best  adapted  to  pre- 
serve his  equilibrium,  but  to  display  his  figure,  was  thrown 
with  some  force  upon  a  heap  of  bricks  and  rubbish  which  had 
long,  to  the  scandal  of  the  neighborhood,  stood  before  the 
paintless  railings  around  Mr.  Welford's  house.  Welford  him- 
self came  out  at  the  time,  and  felt  compelled,  for  he  was  by  no 
means  one  whose  sympathetic  emotions  flowed  easily,  to  give  a 
glance  to  the  condition  of  a  man  who  lay  motionless  before  his 
very  door.  The  horseman  quickly  recovered  his  senses,  but 
found  himself  unable  to  rise;  one  of  his  legs  was  broken. 
Supported  in  the  arms  of  his  groom  he  looked  around,  and  his 
eye  met  Welford's.  An  instant  recognition  gave  life  to  the 
face  of  the  former,  and  threw  a  dark  blush  over  the  sullen 
features  of  the  latter.  "Heavens!"  said  the  cavalier,  "is 
that — " 

"Hist,  my  lord!"  cried  Welford  quickly,  interrupting  him, 
and  glancing  round.  "But  you  are  hurt, — will  you  enter  my 
house?" 

The  horseman  signified  his  assent,  and,  between  the  groom 
and  Welford,  was  borne  within  the  shabby  door  of  the  ex- 
solicitor.  The  groom  was  then  despatched  with  an  excuse  to 
the  party,  many  of  whom  were  already  hastening  around  the 
house;  and  though  one  or  two  did  force  themselves  across  the 
inhospitable  threshold,  yet  so  soon  as  they  had  uttered  a  few 
expletives,  and  felt  their  stare  sink  beneath  the  sullen  and  chill- 
ing asperity  of  the  host,  they  satisfied  themselves  that  though 
it  was  d — d  unlucky  for  their  friend,  yet  they  could  do 
nothing  for  him  at  present;  and  promising  to  send  to  inquire 
after  him  the  next  day,  they  remounted  and  rode  homeward, 
with  an  eye  more  attentive  than  usual  to  the  motion  of  their 
steeds.  They  did  not,  however,  depart  till  the  surgeon  of  the 
town  had  made  his  appearance,  and  declared  that  the  patient 
must  not  on  any  account  be  moved.  A  lord's  leg  was  a  wind- 
fall that  did  not  happen  every  day  to  the  surgeon  of  . 

All  this  while  we  may  imagine  the  state  of  anxiety  experienced 
in  the  town,  and  the  agonized  endurance  of  those  rural  nerves 
which  are  produced  in  scanty  populations,  and  have  so  Talia- 
cotian  a  sympathy  with  the  affairs  of  other  people.  One  day — 
two  days — three  days — a  week — a  fortnight,  nay,  a  month, 
passed,  and  the  lord  was  still  the  inmate  of  Mr.  Welford's 
abode.  Leaving  the  gossips  to  feed  on  their  curiosity, — "can- 
nibals of  their  own  hearts," — we  must  give  a  glance  towards 
the  interior  of  the  inhospitable  mansion  of  the  ex-solicitor. 

It  was  towards  evening,  the  sufferer  was  supported  on  a  sofa, 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  345 

and  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Welford,  who  had  officiated  as  his  nurse, 
was  placing  the  pillow  under  the  shattered  limb.  He  himself 
was  attempting  to  seize  her  hand,  which  she  coyly  drew  back, 
and  uttering  things  sweeter  and  more  polished  than  she  had 
ever  listened  to  before.  At  this  moment  Welford  softly  entered ; 
he  was  unnoticed  by  either ;  and  he  stood  at  the  door  con- 
templating them  with  a  smile  of  calm  and  self-hugging  derision. 
The  face  of  Mephistopheles  regarding  Margaret  and  Faust 
might  suggest  some  idea  of  the  picture  we  design  to  paint ;  but 
the  countenance  of  Welford  was  more  lofty,  as  well  as  comelier, 
in  character,  though  not  less  malignant  in  expression,  than  that 
which  the  incomparable  Retsch  has  given  to  the  mocking  fiend. 
So  utter,  so  congratulatory,  so  lordly  was  the  contempt  on  Wei- 
ford's  dark  and  striking  features.,  that  though  he  was  in  that 
situation  in  which  ridicule  usually  attaches  itself  to  the  husband, 
it  was  the  gallant  and  the  wife  that  would  have  appeared  to  the 
beholder  in  a  humiliating  and  unenviable  light. 

After  a  momentary  pause,  Welford  approached  with  a  heavy 
step, — the  wife  started, — but,  with  a  bland  and  smooth  ex- 
pression, which,  since  his  sojourn  in  the  town  of  ,  had 

been  rarely  visible  in  his  aspect,  the  host  joined  the  pair,  smiled 
on  the  nurse,  and  congratulated  the  patient  on  his  progress  to- 
wards recovery.  The  nobleman,  well  learned  in  the  usages  of 
the  world,  replied  easily  and  gayly;  and  the  conversation 
flowed  on  cheerful  enough  till  the  wife,  who  had  sat  abstracted 
and  apart,  stealing  ever  and  anon  timid  glances  towards  her  hus- 
band, and  looks  of  a  softer  meaning  towards  the  patient,  retired 
from  the  room.  Welford  then  gave  a  turn  to  the  conversation : 
he  reminded  the  nobleman  of  the  pleasant  days  they  had  passed 
in  Italy, — of  the  adventures  they  had  shared,  and  the  intrigues 
they  had  enjoyed ;  as  the  conversation  warmed  it  assumed  a 
more  free  and  licentious  turn ;  and  not  a  little  we  ween,  would 

the  good  folks  of  have  been  amazed  could  they  have 

listened  to  the  gay  jests  and  the  libertine  maxims  which  flowed 
from  the  thin  lips  of  that  cold  and  severe  Welford,  whose  counte- 
nance gave  the  lie  to  mirth.  Of  women  in  general  they  spoke 
with  that  lively  contempt  which  is  the  customary  tone  with  men 
of  the  world, — only  in  Welford  it  assumed  a  bitterer,  a  deeper, 
and  a  more  philosophical  cast,  than  it  did  in  his  more  animated 
yet  less  energetic  guest. 

The  nobleman  seemed  charmed  with  his  friend ;  the  con- 
versation was  just  to  his  taste ;  and  when  Welford  had  supported 
him  up  to  bed,  he  shook  that  person  cordially  by  the  hand,  and 
hoped  he  should  soon  see  him  in  very  different  circumstances. 


346  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

When  the  peer's  door  was  closed  on  Welford,  he  stood  motion- 
less for  some  moments ;  he  then  with  a  soft  step  ascended  to  his 
own  chamber.  His  wife  slept  soundly;  beside  the  bed  was  the 
infant's  cradle.  As  his  eyes  fell  on  the  latter,  the  rigid  irony 
now  habitual  to  his  features  relaxed ;  he  bent  over  the  cradle 
long,  and  in  deep  silence.  The  mother's  face,  blended  with 
the  sire's,  was  stamped  on  the  sleeping  and  cherub  countenance 
before  him ;  and  as  at  length,  rousing  from  his  revery,  he  kissed 
it  gently,  he  murmured: 

"When  I  look  on  you  I  will  believe  that  she  once  loved  me.— 
Pah!"  he  said  abruptly,  and  rising, — "this  fatherly  sentiment 

for  a 's  offering  is  exquisite  in  me!"  So  saying,  without 

glancing  towards  his  wife,  who,  disturbed  by  the  loudness  of 
his  last  words,  stirred  uneasily,  he  left  the  room,  and  descended 
into  that  where  he  had  conversed  with  his  guest.  He  shut  the 
door  with  caution,  and  striding  to  and  fro  the  humble  apart- 
ment, gave  vent  to  thoughts  marshalled  somewhat  in  the  broken 
array  in  which  they  now  appear  to  the  reader. 

"Ay,  ay,  she  has  been  my  ruin!  and  if  I  were  one  of  your 
weak  fools  who  make  a  gospel  of  the  silliest  and  most  mawkish 
follies  of  this  social  state,  she  would  now  be  my  disgrace ;  but, 
instead  of  my  disgrace,  I  will  make  her  my  footstool  to  honor 
and  wealth.  And,  then,  to  the  devil  with  the  footstool !  Yes ! 
two  years  I  have  borne  what  was  enough  to  turn  my  whole 
blood,  into  gall:  inactivity,  hopelessness — a  wasted  heart  and 
life  in  myself,  contumely  from  the  world,  coldness,  bickering, 
ingratitude,  from  the  one  for  whom — oh,  ass  that  I  was ! — I  gave 
up  the  most  cherished  part  of  my  nature — rather  my  nature  it- 
self!  Two  years  I  have  borne  this,  and  now  will  I  have  my 
revenge ;  I  will  sell  her — sell  her !  God !  I  will  sell  her  like 
the  commonest  beast  of  a  market !  And  this  paltry  piece  of 
false  coin  shall  buy  me — my  world !  Other  men's  vengeance 
comes  from  hatred — a  base,  rash,  unphilosophical  sentiment! 
mine  comes  from  scorn — the  only  wise  state  for  the  reason  to 
rest  in.  Other  men's  vengeance  ruins  themselves — mine  shall 
save  me!  Hah! — how  my  soul  chuckles  when  I  look  at  this 
pitiful  pair,  who  think  I  see  them  not,  and  know  that  every 
movement  they  make  is  on  a  mesh  of  my  web!  Yet,"  and 
Welford  paused  slowly, — "yet  I  cannot  but  mock  myself  when 
I  think  of  the  arch  gull  that  this  boy's  madness,  love, — love  in- 
deed!— 'the  very  word  turns  me  sick  with  loathing, — made  of 
me.  Had  that  woman,  silly,  weak,  automatal  as  she  is,  really 
loved  me, — had  she  been  sensible  of  the  unspeakable  sacrifice 
I  had  made  to  her  (Antony's  was  nothing  to  it — he  lost  a  real 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  347 

world  only;  mine  was  the  world  of  imagination), — had  she  but 
condescended  to  learn  my  nature,  to  subdue  the  woman's  devil 
at  her  own,  I  could  have  lived  on  in  this  babbling  hermitage  for 
ever,  and  fancied  myself  happy  and  resigned, — I  could  have 
become  a  different  being.  I  fancy  I  could  have  become  what 
your  moralists  (quacks!)  call  'good.'  But  this  fretting  frivolity 
of  heart, — this  lust  of  fool's  praise, — this  peevishness  of  tem- 
per,— this  sullenness  in  answer  to  the  moody  thought,  which 
in  me  she  neither  fathomed  nor  forgave, — this  vulgar,  daily, 
hourly  pining  at  the  paltry  pinches  of  the  body's  poverty,  the 
domestic  whine,  the  household  complaint, — when  I — Ihave  not 
a  thought  for  such  pitiful  trials  of  affection ;  and  all  this  while 
my  curses,  my  buried  hope,  and  disguised  spirit,  and  sunken 
name  not  thought  of ;  the  magnitude  of  my  surrender  to  her 
not  even  comprehended;  nay,  her  'inconveniences,' — a  dim 
hearth,  I  suppose,  or  a  daintiless  table, — compared,  ay,  ab- 
solutely compared  with  all  which  I  abandoned  for  her  sake! 
As  if  it  were  not  enough, — had  I  been  a  fool,  an  ambitionless, 
soulless  fool, — the  mere  thought  that  I  had  linked  my  name  to 
that  of  a  tradesman — I  beg  pardon,  a  retired  tradesman ! — as  if 
that  knowledge, — a  knowledge  I  would  strangle  my  whole  race, 
every  one  who  has  ever  met,  seen  me,  rather  than  they  should 
penetrate, — were  not  enough  when  she  talks  of  'comparing, ' — to 
make  me  gnaw  the  very  flesh  from  my  bones!  No,  no,  no! 
Never  was  there  so  bright  a  turn  in  my  fate  as  when  this  titled 
coxcomb,  with  his  smooth  voice  and  gaudy  fripperies,  came 
hither!  I  will  make  her  a  tool  to  carve  my  escape  from  this 
cavern  wherein  she  has  plunged  me.  I  will  foment  'my  lord's" 
passion,  till  'my  lord'  thinks  the  'passion'  (a  butterfly's  passion  !) 
worth  any  price.  I  will  then  make  my  own  terms,  bind  'my 
lord'  to  secrecy,  and  get  rid  of  my  wife,  my  shame,  and  the  ob- 
scurity of  Mr.  Welford,  for  ever.  Bright,  bright  prospects!  let 
me  shut  my  eyes  to  enjoy  you  !  But  softly, — my  noble  friend 
calls  himself  a  man  of  the  world,  skilled  in  human  nature,  and 
aderider  of  its  prejudices;  true  enough,  in  his  own  little  way — 
thanks  not  to  enlarged  views  but  a  vicious  experience — so  he 
is !  The  book  of  the  world  is  a  vast  miscellany  ;  he  is  perfect- 
ly well  acquainted,  doubtless,  with  those  pages  that  treat  of  the 
fashions, — profoundly  versed,  I  warrant,  in  the  Magasin  des 
Modes  tacked  to  the  end  of  the  index.  But  shall  I,  even  with- 
all  the  mastership  which  my  mind  must  exercise  over  his,  shall  I 
be  able  utterly  to  free  myself  in  this  'peer  of  the  world's'  mind 
from  a  degrading  remembrance?  Cuckold!  cuckold!  'tis  an 
ugly  word;  convenient,  willing  cuckold,  humph  ! — there  is  no 


348  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

grandeur,  no  philosophical  varnish  in  the  praise.  Let  me  see, 
yes !  I  have  a  remedy  for  all  that.  I  was  married  privately, — 
well !  under  disguised  names, — well !  it  was  a  stolen  marriage,  fai 
from  her  town, — well!  witnesses  unknown  to  her, — well!  proofs 
easily  secured  to  my  possession,— excellent !  the  fool  shall  be- 
lieve it  a  forged  marriage,  an  ingenious  gallantry  of  mine ;  I  will 
wash  out  the  stain  cuckold  with  the  water  of  another  word ;  I 
will  make  market  of  a  mistress,  not  a  wife.  I  will  warn  him 
not  to  acquaint  her  with  this  secret ;  let  me  consider  for  what 
reason, — oh!  my  son's  legitimacy  may  be  convenient  to  me  here- 
after. He  will  understand  that  reason,  and  I  will  have  his 
'honor'  thereon.  And  by  the  way,  I  do  care  for  that  legiti- 
macy, and  will  guard  the  proofs ;  I  love  my  child, — ambitious 
men  do  love  their  children ;  I  may  become  a  lord  myself,  and 
may  wish  for  a  lord  to  succeed ;  and  that  son  is  mine ;  thank 
Heaven !  I  am  sure  on  that  point, — the  only  child,  too,  that  ever 
shall  arise  to  me.  Never,  I  swear,  will  I  again  put  myself  be- 
yond my  own  power.  All  my  nature,  save  one  passion,  I  have 
hitherto  mastered ;  that  passion  shall  henceforth  be  my  slave, 
my  only  thought  be  ambition,  my  only  mistress  be  the  world!" 

As  thus  terminated  the  revery  of  a  man  whom  the  social  cir- 
cumstances of  the  world  were  calculated,  as  if  by  system,  to 
render  eminently  and  basely  wicked,  Welford  slowly  ascended 
the  stairs,  and  re-entered  his  chamber :  his  wife  was  still  sleep- 
ing; her  beauty  was  of  the  fair,  and  girlish,  and  harmonized 
order,  which  lovers  and  poem  would  express  by  the  word  "an- 
gelic" ;  and  as  Welford  looked  upon  her  face,  hushed  and  al- 
most hallowed  by  slumber,  a  certain  weakness  and  irresolution 
might  have  been  discernible  in  the  strong  lines  of  his  haughty 
features.  At  that  moment,  as  if  forever  to  destroy  the  return 
of  hope  or  virtue  to  either,  her  lips  moved,  they  uttered  one 
word, — it  was  the  name  of  Welford' s  courtly  guest. 

About  three  weeks  from  that  evening,  Mrs.  Welford  eloped 
with  the  young  nobleman,  and  on  the  morning  following  that 
event,  the  distracted  husband  with  his  child  disappeared  for- 
ever from  the  town  of  .  Fom  that  day  no  tidings  what- 
soever respecting  him  ever  reached  the  titillated  ears  of  his 
anxious  neighbors ;  and  doubt,  curiosity,  discussion,  gradually 
settled  into  the  belief  that  his  despair  had  hurried  him  into 
suicide. 

Although  the  unfortunate  Mrs.  Welford  was  in  reality  of  a 
light  and  frivolous  turn,  and,  above  all,  susceptible  to  personal 
vanity,  she  was  not  without  ardent  affections  and  keen  sensibili- 
ties. Her  marriage  had  been  one  of  love,  that  is  to  say,  on  her 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  349 

part,  the  ordinary  love  of  girls,  who  love  not  through  actual  and 
natural  feeling  so  much  as  forced  predisposition.  Her  choice 
had  fallen  on  one  superior  to  herself  in  birth,  and  far  above  all, 
in  person  and  address,  whom  she  had  habitually  met.  Thus 
her  vanity  had  assisted  her  affection,  and  something  strange 
and  eccentric  in  the  temper  and  mind  of  Welford  had,  though 
at  times  it  aroused  her  fear,  greatly  contributed  to  inflame  her 
imagination.  Then,  too,  though  an  uncourtly,  he  had  been  a 
passionate  and  a  romantic  lover.  She  was  sensible  that  he  gave 
up  for  her  much  that  he  had  previously  conceived  necessary 
to  his  existence ;  and  she  stopped  not  to  inquire  how  far  this 
devotion  was  likely  to  last,  or  what  conduct  on  her  part  might 
best  perpetuate  the  feelings  from  which  it  sprung.  She  had 
eloped  with  him.  She  had  consented  to  a  private  marriage. 
She  had  passed  one  happy  month,  and  then  delusion  van- 
ished !  Mrs.  Welford  was  not  a  woman  who  could  give  to  re- 
ality, or  find  in  it,  the  charm  equal  to  delusion.  She  was  perfect- 
ly unable  to  comprehend  the  intricate  and  dangerous  character 
of  her  husband.  She  had  not  the  key  to  his  virtues,  nor  the 
spell  for  his  vices.  Neither  was  the  state  to  which  poverty 
compelled  them  one  well  calculated  for  that  tender  meditation, 
heightened  by  absence,  and  cherished  in  indolence,  which  so 
often  supplies  one  who  loves  with  the  secret  to  the  nature  of 
the  one  beloved.  Though  not  equal  to  her  husband  in  birth  or 
early  prospects,  Mrs.  Welford  had  been  accustomed  to  certain 
comforts,  often  more  felt  by  those  who  belong  to  the  inferior 
classes  than  by  those  appertaining  to  the  more  elevated,  who, 
in  losing  one  luxury,  will  often  cheerfully  surrender  all.  A  fine 
lady  can  submit  to  more  hardships  than  her  woman  ;  and  every 
gentleman  who  travels  smiles  at  the  privations  which  agonize  his 
valet.  Poverty  and  its  grim  comrades  made  way  for  a  whole 
host  of  petty  irritations  and  peevish  complaints ;  and  as  no 
guest  or  visitor  ever  relieved  the  domestic  discontent,  or  broke 
on  the  domestic  bickering,  they  generally  ended  in  that  moody 
sullenness  which  so  often  finds  love  a  grave  in  repentance. 
Nothing  makes  people  tire  of  each  other  like  a  familiarity  that 
admits  of  carelessness  in  quarrelling  and  coarseness  in  com- 
plaining. The  biting  sneer  of  Welford  gave  acrimony  to  the 
murmur  of  his  wife ;  and  when  once  each  conceived  the  other 
the  injurer,  or  him  or  herself  the  wronged,  it  was  vain  to  hope 
that  one  would  be  more  wary,  or  the  other  more  indulgent. 
They  both  exacted  too  much,  and  the  wife  in  especial  con- 
ceded too  little.  Mrs.  Welford  was  altogether  and  emphati- 
cally what  a  libertine  calls  "a  woman," — such  as  a  Jriv 


PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

olaus  education  makes  a  woman, — generous  in  great  things, 
petty  in  small ;  vain,  irritable,  full  of  the  littleness  of  herself 
and  her  complaints,  ready  to  plunge  into  an  abyss  with  her 
lover,  but  equally  ready  to  fret  away  all  love  with  reproaches 
when  the  plunge  had  been  made.  Of  all  men,  Welford  could 
bear  this  the  least.  A  woman  of  a  larger  heart,  a  more  settled 
experience^  and  an  intellect  capable  of  appreciating  his  char- 
acter, and  sounding  all  his  qualities,  might  have  made  him  per- 
haps an  useful  and  a  great  man ;  and,  at  least,  her  lover  for 
life.  Amidst  a  harvest  of  evil  feelings,  the  mere  strength  of 
his  nature  rendered  him  especially  capable  of  intense  feeling 
and  generous  emotion.  One  who  relied  on  him  was  safe, — one 
who  rebelled  against  him  trusted  only  to  the  caprice  of  his 
scorn.  Still,  however,  for  two  years,  love,  though  weakening 
with  each  hour,  fought  on  in  either  breast,  and  could  scarcely 
be  said  to  be  entirely  vanquished  in  the  wife,  even  when  she 
eloped  with  her  handsome  seducer.  A  French  writer  has  said, 
pithily  enough,  "Compare  for  a  moment  the  apathy  of  a  hus- 
band with  the  attention,  the  gallantry,  the  adoration  of  a  lover, 
and  can  you  ask  the  result? "  He  was  a  French  writer;  but  Mrs. 
Welford  had  in  her  temper  much  of  the  Frenchwoman.  A  suf- 
fering patient,  young,  handsome,  well  versed  in  the  arts  of  in- 
trigue, contrasted  with  a  gloomy  husband  whom  she  had  never 
comprehended,  long  feared,  and  had  lately  doubted  if  she  dis- 
liked,— ah!  a  much  weaker  contrast  has  made  many  a  much 
better  woman  food  for  the  lawyers !  Mrs.  Welford  eloped ;  but 
she  felt  a  revived  tenderness  for  her  husband  on  the  very  morn- 
ing that  she  did  so.  She  carried  away  with  her  his  letters  of 
love  as  well  as  her  own,  which  when  they  first  married  she  had 
in  an  hour  of  fondness  collected  together — then  an  inestimable 
hoard!  and  never  did  her  new  lover  receive  from  her  beautiful 
lips  half  so  passionate  a  kiss  as  she  left  on  the  cheek  of  her  in- 
fant. For  some  months  she  enjoyed  with  her  paramour  all  for 
which  she  had  sighed  in  her  home.  The  one  for  whom  she  had 
forsaken  her  legitimate  ties  was  a  person  so  habitually  cheerful, 
courteous,  and  what  is  ordinarily  termed  good-natured  (though 
he  had  in  him  as  much  of  the  essence  of  selfishness  as  any  noble- 
man can  decently  have),  that  he  continued  gallant  to  her  with- 
out an  effort  long  after  he  had  begun  to  think  it  possible  to  tire 
even  of  so  lovely  a  face.  Yet  there  were  moments  when  the 
fickle  wife  recalled  her  husband  with  regret;  and,  contrasting 
him  with  her  seducer,  did  not  find  all  the  colorings  of  the  con- 
trast flattering  to  the  latter.  There  is  something  in  a  powerful 
and  marked  character  which  women,  and  all  weak  natures,  feel 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  351 

themselves  constrained  to  respect;  and  Welford's  character 
thus  stood  in  bold,  and  therefore  advantageous  though  gloomy, 
relief  when  opposed  to  the  levities  and  foibles  of  this  guilty 
woman's  present  adorer.  However  this  be,  the  die  was  cast; 
and  it  would  have  been  policy  for  the  lady  to  have  made  the 
best  of  her  present  game.  But  she  who  had  murmured  as  a 
wife  was  not  complaisant  as  a  mistress.  Reproaches  made  an 
interlude  to  caresses,  which  the  noble  lover  by  no  means  ad- 
mired. He  was  not  a  man  to  retort,  he  was  too  indolent;  but 
neither  was  he  one  to  forbear.  "My  charming  friend,"  said 
he  one'day,  after  a  scene,  "you  weary  of  me, — nothing  more 
natural!  Why  torment  each  other?  You  say  I  have  ruined 
you;  my  sweet  friend,  let  me  make  you  reparation — become 
independent;  I  will  settle  an  annuity  upon  you;  fly  me — seek 
happiness  elsewhere,  and  leave  your  unfortunate,  your  despair- 
ing lover  to  his  fate. ' ' 

"Do  you  taunt  me,  my  lord?"  cried  the  angry  fair;  "or  do 
you  believe  that  money  can  replace  the  rights  of  which  you 
have  robbed  me  ?  Can  you  make  me  again  a  wife — a  happy,  a 
respected  wife?  L)o  this,  my  lord,  and  you  atone  to  me?" 

The  nobleman  smiled,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  lady 
yet  more  angrily  repeated  her  question.  The  lover  answered 
by  an  innuendo,  which  at  once  astonished  and  doubly  enraged 
her.  She  eagerly  demanded  explanation  ;  and  his  lordship,  who 
had  gone  farther  than  he  intended,  left  the  room.  But  his  words 
had  sunk  deep  into  the  breast  of  this  unhappy  woman,  and  she 
resolved  ta  procure  an  elucidation.  Agreeably  to  the  policy 
which  stripped  the  fabled  traveller  of  his  cloak,  she  laid  aside 
the  storm,  and  preferred  the  sunshine;  she  watched  a -moment 
of  tenderness,  turned  the  opportunity  to  advantage,  and,  by 
little  and  little,  she  possessed  herself  of  a  secret  which  sickened 
her  with  shame,  disgust,  and  dismay.  Sold!  bartered!  the  ob- 
ject of  a  contemptuous  huxtering  to  the  purchaser  and  the 
seller ;  sold,  too,  with  a  lie  that  debased  her  at  once  into  an 
object  for  whom  even  pity  was  mixed  with  scorn.  Robbed  al- 
ready of  the  name  and  honor  of  a  wife,  and  transferred  as  a 
harlot,  from  the  wearied  arms  of  one  leman  to  the  capricious 
caresses  of  another.  .  Such  was  the  image  that  rose  before  her ; 
and,  while  it  roused  at  one  moment  all  her  fiercer  passions  into 
madness,  humbled,  with  the  next,  her  vanity  into  the  dust. 
She,  who  knew  the  ruling. passion  of  Welford,  saw  at  a  glance,  the 
object  of  scorn  and  derision  which  she  had  become  to  him.  While 
she  imagined  herself  the  betrayer,  she  had  been  the  betrayed ; 
she  saw  vividly  before  her  (and  shuddered  as  she  saw)  her  hus- 


352  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

band's  icy  smile — his  serpent  eye — his  features  steeped  in  sar- 
casm, and  all  his  mocking  soul  stamped  upon  the  countenance, 
whose  lightest  derision  was  so  galling.  She  turned  from  this  pic- 
ture, and  saw  the  courtly  face  of  the  purchaser — his  subdued 
smile  at  her  reproaches — his  latent  sneer  at  her  claims  to  a  station 
which  he  had  been  taught,  by  the  arch  plotter,  to  believe  she 
had  never  possessed.  She  saw  his  early  weariness  of  her  attrac- 
tions, expressed  with  respect  indeed — an  insulting  respect, — 
but  felt  without  a  scruple  of  remorse.  She  saw  in  either — as 
around — only  a  reciprocation  of  contempt.  She  was  in  a  web 
of  profound  abasement.  Even  that  haughty  grief  of  conscience 
for  a  crime  committed  to  another,  which  if  it  stings,  humbles 
not,  was  swallowed  up  in  a  far  more  agonizing  sensation,  to 
one  so  vain  as  the  adulteress — the  burning  sense  of  shame  at 
having  herself,  while  sinning,  been  the  duped  and  deceived. 
Her  very  soul  was  appalled  with  her  humiliation.  The  curse 
of  Welford's  vengeance  was  on  her — and  it  was  wreaked  to  the 
last !  Whatever  kindly  sentiment  she  might  have  experienced 
towards  her  protector  was  swallowed  up  at  once  by  this  dis- 
covery. She  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  meeting  the  eye 
of  one  who  had  been  the  gainer  by  this  ignominious  barter ;  the 
foibles  and  weaknesses  of  the  lover  assumed  a  despicable  as  well 
as  hateful  dye.  And  in  feeling  herself  degraded,  she  loathed 
him.  The  day  after  she  had  made  the  discovery  we  have  re- 
ferred to,  Mrs.  Welford  left  the  house  of  her  protector,  none 
knew  whither.  For  two  years  from  that  date,  all  trace  of  her 
history  was  lost.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  what  was  Welford? — 
A  man  rapidly  rising  in  the  world,  distinguished  at  the  bar, 
where  his  first  brief  had  lifted  him  into  notice,  commencing  a 
flattering  career  in  the  senate,  holding  lucrative  and  honorable 
offices,  esteemed  for  the  austere  rectitude  of  his  moral  charac- 
ter, gathering  the  golden  opinions  of  all  men  as  he  strode  on- 
ward to  public  reputation.  He  had  re-assumed  his  hereditary 
name:  his  early  history  was  unknown;  and  no  one  in  the  ob- 
scure and  distant  town  of had  ever  guessed  that  the 

humble  Welford  was  the  William  Brandon  whose  praise  was 
echoed  in  so  many  journals  and  whose  rising  genius  was  ac- 
knowledged by  all.  That  asperity,  roughness,  and  gloom  which 

had   noted  him  at and  which,  being   natural    to   him,  he 

deigned  not  to  disguise  in  a  station  ungenial  to  his  talents  and 
below  his  hopes,  were  now  glitteringly  varnished  over  by  an 
hypocrisy  well  calculated  to  aid  his  ambition.  So  learnedly 
could  this  singular  man  fit  himself  to  others,  that  few  among 
the  great  met  him  as  a  companion,  nor  left  him  without  the 


PAUL    CLIFFORD*  553 

temper  to  become  nis  friend.  Through  his  noble  rival,  that  is 
(to  make  our  reader's  "surety  doubly  sure")  through  Lord 
Mauleverer,  he  had  acquired  his  first  lucrative  office,  a  certain 
patronage  from  government,  and  his  seat  in  Parliament.  If  he 
had  persevered  at  the  bar,  rather,  than  given  himself  entirely  to 
state  intrigues,  it  was  only  because  his  talents  were  eminently 
more  calculated  to  advance  him  in  the  former  path  to  honor, 
than  in  the  latter.  So  devoted  was  he  become  to  public  life, 
that  he  had  only  permitted  himself  to  cherish  one  private  source 
of  enjoyment — his  son.  As  no  one,  not  even  his  brother,  knew 
he  had  been  married — (during  the  two  years  of  his  disguised 
name,  he  had  been  supposed  abroad), — the  appearance  of  this 
son  made  the  only  piece  of  scandal  whispered  against  the  rigid 
morality  of  his  fair  fame ;  but  he  himself,  waiting  his  own  time 
for  avowing  a  legitimate  heir,  gave  out  that  it  was  the  orphan 
child  of  a  dear  friend  whom  he  had  known  abroad ;  and  the 
puritan  demureness  not  only  of  life,  but  manner,  which  he  as- 
sumed, gained  a  pretty  large  belief  to  the  statement.  This  son 
Brandon  idolized.  As  we  have  represented  himself  to  say, — 
ambitious  men  are  commonly  fond  of  their  children  beyond  the 
fondness  of  other  sires.  The  perpetual  reference  which  the 
ambitious  make  to  posterity,  is  perhaps  the  main  reason.  But 
Brandon  was  also  fond  of  children  generally ;  philoprogenitive- 
ness  was  a  marked  trait  in  his  character,  and  would  seem  to 
belie  the  hardness  and  artifice  belonging  to  that  character, 
were  not  the  same  love  so  frequently  noticeable  in  the  harsh 
and  the  artificial.  It  seems  as  if  a  half-conscious  but  pleasing 
feeling,  that  they  too  were  once  gentle  and  innocent,  makes 
them  delight  in  reviving  any  sympathy  with  their  early 
state. 

Often  after  the  applause  and  labor  of  the  day,  Brandon 
would  repair  to  his  son's  chamber,  and  watch  his  slumber  for 
hours;  often  before  his  morning  toil  commenced,  he  would 
nurse  the  infant  in  his  arms  with  all  a  woman's  natural  tender- 
ness and  gushing  joy.  And  often,  as  a  graver  and  more  char- 
acteristic sentiment  stole  over  him,  he  would  mentally  say, — 
"You  shall  build  up  our  broken  name  on  a  better  foundation 
than  your  sire.  I  begin  too  late  in  life,  and  I  labor  up  a  pain- 
ful and  stony  road ;  but  I  shall  make  the  journey  to  Fame 
smooth  and  accessible  for  you.  Never,  too,  while  you  aspire 
to  honor,  shall  you  steel  your  heart  to  tranquillity.  For  you, 
my  child,  shall  be  the  joys  of  home  and  love,  and  a  mind  that 
does  not  sicken  at  the  past,  and  strain,  through  mere  fretful- 
ness,  towards  a  solitary  and  barren  distinction  for  the  future. 


354  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

Not  only  what  your  father  gains  you  shall  enjoy,  but  what  has 
cursed  him,  his  vigilance  shall  lead  you  to  shun!" 

It  was  thus  not  only  that  his  softer  feelings,  but  all  the  better 
and  nobler  ones,  which,  even  in  the  worst  and  hardest  bosom, 
find  some  root,  turned  towards  his  child;  and  that  the  hollow 
and  vicious  man  promised  to  become  the  affectionate  and  per- 
haps the  wise  parent. 

One  night,  Brandon  was  returning  home  on  foot,  from  a  min- 
isterial dinner.  The  night  was  frosty  and  clear,  the  hour  was 
late,  and  his  way  lay  through  the  longest  and  best  lighted  streets 
of  the  metropolis.  He  was,  as  usual,  buried  in  thought,  when 
he  was  suddenly  aroused  from  his  revery  by  a  light  touch  laid 
on  his  arm.  He  turned,  and  saw  one  of  the  unhappy  persons 
who  haunt  the  midnight  streets  of  cities,  standing  right  before 
his  path.  The  gaze  of  each  fell  upon  the  other ;  and  it  was 
thus,  for  the  first  time  since  they  laid  their  heads  on  the  same 
pillow,  that  the  husband  met  the  wife.  The  skies  were  intense- 
ly clear,  and  the  lamplight  was  bright  and  calm  upon  the  faces 
of  both.  There  was  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  either.  Suddenly, 
and  with  a  startled  and  ghastly  consciousness,  they  recognized 
each  other.  The  wife  staggered,  and  clung  to  a  post  for  sup- 
port: Brandon's  look  was  calm  and  unmoved.  The  hour  that 
his  bitter  and  malignant  spirit  had  yearned  for  was  come:  nis 
nerves  expanded  in  a  voluptuous  calmness,  as  if  to  give  him  a 
deliberate  enjoyment  of  his  hope  fulfilled.  Whatever  the  words 
that,  in  that  unwitnessed  and  almost  awful  interview,  passed 
between  them,  we  may  be  sure  that  Brandon  spared  not  one 
atom  of  his  power.  The  lost  and  abandoned  wife  returned 
home,  and  all  her  nature,  embruted  as  it  had  become  by  guilt 
and  vile  habits,  hardened  into  revenge, — that  preternatural  feel- 
ing which  may  be  termed  the  hope  of  despair. 

Three  nights  from  that  meeting,  Brandon's  house  was  broken 
into.  Like  the  houses  of  many  legal  men,  it  lay  in  a  dangerous 
and  thinly-populated  outskirt  of  the  town,  and  was  easily  ac- 
cessible to  robbery.  He  was  awakened  by  a  noise:  he  started, 
and  found  himself  in  the  grasp  of  two  men.  At  the  foot  of  the 
bed  stood  a  female,  raising  a  light,  and  her  face,  haggard  with 
searing  passions,  and  ghastly  with  the  leprous  whiteness  of  dis- 
ease and  approaching  death,  glared  full  upon  him. 

"It  is  now  my  turn,"  said  the  female  with  a  grin  of  scorn 
which  Brandon  himself  might  have  envied;  "you  have  cursed 
rne,  and  I  return  the  curse!  You  have  told  me  that  my  child 
shall  never  name  me  but  to  blush.  Fool !  I  triumph  over  you  : 
you  he  shall  never  know  to  his  dying  day !  You  have  told  me, 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  355 

that  to  my  child  and  my  child's  child  (a  long  transmission  of 
execration),  my  name — the  name  of  the  wife  you  basely  sold  to 
ruin  and  to  hell,  should  be  left  as  a  legacy  of  odium  and  shame! 
Man,  you  shall  teach  that  child  no  farther  lesson  whatever :  you 
shall  know  not  whether  he  live  or  die,  or  have  children  to  carry 
on  your  boasted  race;  or  whether,  if  he  have,  those  children 
be  not  outcasts  of  the  earth — the  accursed  of  man  and  God — 
the  fit  offspring  of  the  thing  you  have  made  me.  Wretch !  I 
hurl  back  on  you  the  denunciation  with  which,  when  we  met 
three  nights  since,  you  would  have  crushed  the  victim  of  your 
own  perfidy.  You  shall  tread  the  path  of  your  ambition  child- 
less, and  objectless,  and  hopeless.  Disease  shall  set  her  stamp 
upon  your  frame.  The  worm  shall  batten  upon  your  heart 
You  shall  have  honors  and  enjoy  them  not;  you  shall  gain  your 
ambition,  and  despair:  you  shall  pine  for  your  son,  and  find 
him  not;  or,  if  you  find  him,  you  shall  curse  the  hour  in  which 
he  was  born.  Mark  me,  man — I  am  dying  while  I  speak — I 
know  that  I  am  a  prophet  in  my  curse.  From  this  hour  I  am 
avenged,  and  you  are  my  scorn!" 

As  the  hardest  natures  sink  appalled  before  the  stony  eye  of 
the  maniac,  so  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  pinioned  by  ruffians, 
the  wild  and  solemn  voice  (sharpened  by  passion  and  partial 
madness)  of  the  ghastly  figure  before  him  curdling  through  his 
veins,  even  the  haughty  and  daring  character  of  William  Bran- 
don quailed!  He  uttered  not  a  word.  He  was  found  the  next 
morning,  bound  by  strong  cords  to  his  bed.  He  spoke  not 
when  he  was  released,  but  went  in  silence  to  his  child's  cham- 
ber: the  child  was  gone!  Several  articles  of  property  were 
also  stolen:  the  desperate  tools  the  mother  had  employed 
worked  not  perhaps  without  their  own  reward*. 

We  need  scarcely  add,  that  Brandon  set  every  engine  and 
channel  of  justice  in  motion  for  the  discovery  of  his  son.  All 
the  .especial  shrewdness  and  keenness  of  his  own  character, 
aided  by  his  professional  experience,  he  employed  for  years  in 
the  same  pursuit.  Every  research  was  wholly  in  vain :  not  the 
remotest  vestige  towards  discovery  could  be  traced,  until  were 
found  (we  have  recorded  when)  some  of  the  articles  that  had 
been  stolen.  Fate  treasured  in  her  gloomy  womb,  altogether 
undescried  by  man,  the  hour  and  the  scene  in  which  the  most 
ardent  wish  of  William  Brandon  was  to  be  realized. 


356  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

"  O  Fortuna,  viris  invida  fortibus 

Quam  non  sequa  bonis  praemia  dividis." 

— SENECA. 
****** 

"  And  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue. 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  he  flew." 

****** 
"  Here,  to  the  houseless  child  of  want, 
My  door  is  open  still." 

— GOLDSMITH. 


SLOWLY  for  Lucy  waned  the  weeks  of  a  winter  which,  to 
her,  was  the  most  dreary  portion  of  life  she  had  ever  passed. 
It  became  the  time  for  the  judge  to  attend  one  of  those  period- 
ical visitations  so  fraught  with  dread  and  dismay  to  the  miser- 
able inmates  of  the  dark  abodes  which  the  complex  laws  of  this 
country  so  bounteously  supply — those  times  of  great  hilarity 
and  eating  to  the  legal  gentry, 

.    "  Who  feed  on  crimes  and  fatten  on  distress, 

And  wring  vile  mirth  from  suffering's  last  excess." 

Ah!  excellent  order  of  the  world,  which  it  is  so  wicked  to 
disturb !  How  miraculously  beautiful  must  be  that  system 
which  makes  wine  out  of  the  scorching  tears  of  guilt ;  and  from 
the  suffocating  suspense,  the  agonized  fear,  the  compelled  and 
self-mocking  bravery,  the  awful  sentence,  the  despairing  death- 
pang  of  one  man,  furnishes  the  smirking  expectation  of  fees, 
the  jovial  meeting,  and  the  mercenary  holiday  to  another!  "Of 
Law,  nothing  less  can  be  said,  than  that  her  seat  is  the  bosom 
of  God."*  To  be  sure  not;  Richard  Hooker,  you  are  per- 
fectly right.  The  divinity  of  a  sessions,  and  the  inspiration  of 
the  Old  Bailey,  are  undeniable. 

The  care  of  Sir  William  Brandon  had  effectually  kept  from. 
Lucy's  ear  the  knowledge  of  her  lover's  ignominious  situation. 
Indeed,  in  her  delicate  health,  even  the  hard  eye  of  Brandon, 
and  the  thoughtless  glance  of  Mauleverer,  perceived  the  dan- 
ger of  such  a  discovery.  The  Earl  now  waiting  the  main  attack 
on  Lucy,  till  the  curtain  had  forever  dropped  on  Clifford,  pro- 
ceeded with  great  caution  and  delicacy  in  his  suit  to  his  pur- 
posed bride.  He  waited  with  the  more  patience,  inasmuch  as 
he  had  drawn  in  advance  on  his  friend  Sir  William  for  some 

*  Hooker's  Ecclesiastical  Polity. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  357 

portion  of  the  heiress's  fortune;  and  he  readily  allowed  that  he 
could  not,  in  the  mean  while,  have  a  better  advocate  than  he 
found  in  Brandon.  So  persuasive,  indeed,  and  so  subtle  was 
the  eloquence  of  this  able  sophist,  that  often,  in  his  artful  con- 
versations with  his  niece,  he  left  even  on  the  unitiated,  and 
strong  though  simple,  mind  of  Lucy  an  uneasy  and  restless 
impression,  which  time  might  have  ripened  into  an  inclination 
towards  the  worldly  advantages  of  the  marriage  at  her  com- 
mand. Brandon  was  no  bungling  mediator  or  violent  persecu- 
tor. He  seemed  to  acquiesce  in  her  rejection  of  Mauleverer. 
He  scarcely  recurred  to  the  event.  He  rarely  praised  the  Earl 
himself,  save  for  the  obvious  qualities  of  liveliness  and  good- 
nature. But  he  spoke,  with  all  the  vivid  colors  he  could  in- 
fuse at  will  into  his  words,  of  the  pleasures  and  the  duties  ot 
rank  and  wealth.  Well  could  he  appeal  alike  to  all  the  preju- 
dices and  all  the  foibles  of  the  human  breast,  and  govern  vir- 
tue through  its  weaknesses.  Lucy  had  been  brought  up,  like 
the  daughters  of  most  country  gentlemen  of  ancient  family,  in 
an  undue  and  idle  consciousness  of  superior  birth ;  and  she 
was  far  from  inaccessible  to  the  warmth  and  even  feeling  (for 
here  Brandon  was  sincere)  with  which  her  uncle  spoke  of  the 
duty  of  raising  a  gallant  name  sunk  into  disrepute,  and  sacri- 
ficing our  own  inclination,  for  the  redecorating  the  mouldered 
splendor  of  those  who  have  gone  before  us.  If  the  confusion 
of  idea  occasioned  by  a  vague  pomposity  of  phrase,  or  the 
infant  inculcation  of  a  sentiment  that  is  mistaken  for  a  virtue, 
so  often  makes  fools  of  the  wise  on  the  subject  of  ancestry;  if 
it  clouded  even  the  sarcastic  and  keen  sense  of  Brandon  him- 
self, we  may  forgive  its  influence  over  a  girl  so  little  versed  in 
the  arts  of  sound  reasonings  as  poor  Lucy,  who,  it  may  be 
said,  had  never  learnt  to  think  until  she  had  learnt  to  love. 
However,  the  impression  made  by  Brandon  in  his  happiest  mo- 
ments of  persuasion  was  as  yet  only  transient ;  it  vanished 
before  the  first  thought  of  Clifford,  and  never  suggested  to  her 
even  a  doubt  as  to  the  suit  of  Mauleverer. 

When  the  day  arrived  for  Sir  William  Brandon  to  set  out  on- 
the  circuit,  he  called  Barlow,  and  enjoined  that  acute  and  intel- 
ligent servant  the  strictest  caution  with  respect  to  Lucy.  He 
bade  him  deny  her  to  every  one,  of  whatever  rank,  and  care- 
fully to  look  into  every  newspaper  that  was  brought  to  her,  as 
well  as  to  withhold  every  letter,  save  such  as  were  addressed  to 
her  in  the  judge's  own  handwriting.  Lucy's  maid  Brandon 
had  already  won  over  to  silence ;  and  the  uncle  now  pleased 
himself  with  thinking  that  he  had  put  an  effectual  guard  to 


358  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

every  chance  of  discovery.  The  identity  of  Lovett  with  Clif- 
ford had  not  yet  even  been  rumored,  and  Mauleverer  had  rightly 
judged  of  Clifford,  when  he  believed  the  prisoner  would  himself 
take  every  precaution  against  the  detection  of  that  fact.  Clif- 
ford answered  the  Earl's  note  and  promise,  in  a  letter,  couched 
in  so  affecting  yet  so  manly  a  tone  of  gratitude,  that  even 
Brandon  was  touched  when  he  read  it.  And  since  his  confine- 
ment and  partial  recovery  of  health,  the  prisoner  had  kept  him- 
self closely  secluded,  and  refused  all  visitors.  Encouraged  by 
this  reflection,  and  the  belief  in  the  safety  of  his  precautions, 
Brandon  took  leave  of  Lucy.  "Farewell!"  said  he,  as  he 
embraced  her  affectionately.  "Be  sure  that  you  write  to  me, 
and  forgive  me  if  I  do  not  answer  you  punctually.  Take  care 
of  yourself,  my  sweet  niece,  and  let  me  see  a  fresher  color  on 
that  soft  cheek  when  I  return ! ' ' 

"Take  care  of  yourself  rather,  my  dear,  dear  uncle,"  said 
Lucy,  clinging  to  him  and  weeping,  as  of  late  her  weakened 
nerves  caused  her  to  do  at  the  least  agitation.  "Why  may  I 
not  go  with  you?  You  have  seemed  to  me  paler  than  usual 
the  last  three  or  four  days,  and  you  complained  yesterday. 
Do  let  me  go  with  you ;  I  will  be  no  trouble,  none  at  all ;  but  I 
am  sure  you  require  a  nurse." 

"You  want  to  frighten  me,  my  pretty  Lucy,"  said  Brandon, 
shaking  his  head  with  a  smile.  "I  am  well,  very  well:  I  felt 
a  strange  rush  of  blood  towards  the  head  yesterday,  it  is  true ; 
but  I  feel  to-day  stronger  and  lighter  than  I  have  done  for 
years.  Once  more,  God  bless  you,  my  child!" 

And  Brandon  tore  himself  away,  and  commenced  his 
journey. 

The  wandering  and  dramatic  course  of  our  story  now  con- 
ducts us  to  an  obscure  lane  in  the  metropolis,  leading  to  the 
Thames,  and  makes  us  spectators  of  an  affecting  farewell 
between  two  persons,  whom  the  injustice  of  fate,  and  the  per- 
secutions of  men,  were  about  perhaps  forever  to  divide. 

"Adieu,  my  friend!"  said  Augustus  Tomlinson,  as  he  stood 
looking  full  on  that  segment  of  the  face  of  Edward  Pepper, 
which  was  left  unconcealed  by  a  huge  hat  and  a  red  belcher 
handkerchief.  Tomlinson  himself  was  attired  in  the  full  cos- 
tume of  a  dignified  clergyman.  "Adieu,  my  friend,  since  you 
will  remain  in  England, — adieu!  I  am,  I  exult  to  say,  no  less 
sincere  a  patriot  than  you.  Heaven  be  my  witness,  how  long 
I  looked  repugnantly  on  poor  Lovett's  proposal  to  quit  my 
beloved  country.  But  all  hope  of  life  here  is  now  over;  and 
really,  during  the  last  ten  days,  I  have  been  so  hunted  from 


t>AUL   CLIFFORD.  35$ 

corner  to  corner,  so  plagued  with  polite  invitations,  similar  to 
those  given  by  a  farmer's  wife  to  her  ducks,  'Dilly,  dilly, 
dilly,  come  and  be  killed!'  that  my  patriotism  has  been  pro- 
digiously cooled,  and  I  no  longer  recoil  from  thoughts  of  self- 
banishment.  'The  earth,'  my  dear  Ned,  as  a  Greek  sage  has 
very  well  observed, — 'the  earth  is  the  same  every  where!'  and 
if  I  am  asked  for  my  home,  I  can  point,  like  Anaxagoras,  to 
heaven!" 

"  Ton  my  soul,  you  affect  me!"  said  Ned,  speaking  thick, 
either  from  grief  or  the  pressure  of  the  belcher  handkerchief 
on  his  mouth;  "it  is  quite  beautiful  to  hear  you  talk!" 

"  Bear  up,  my  dear  friend, ' '  continued  Tomlinson ;  '  'bear  up 
against  your  present  afflictions.  What,  to  a  man  who  fortifies 
himself  by  reason  and  by  reflection  on  the  shortness  of  life  are  the 
little  calamities  of  the  body!  What  is  imprisonment,  or  perse- 
cution, or  cold,  or  hunger? — By  the  by,  you  did  not  forget  to 
put  the  sandwiches  into  my  coat-pocket!" 

"Hush!"  whispered  Ned,  and  he  moved  on  involuntarily; 
"I  see  a  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  street." 

"Let  us  quicken  our  pace,"  said  Tomlinson;  and  the  pair 
proceeded  towards  the  river. 

"And  now,"  began  Ned,  who  thought  he  might  as  well  say 
something  about  himself,  for  hitherto  Augustus,  in  the  ardor 
of  his  friendship,  had  been  only  discussing  his  own  plans, — 
"and  now, — that  is  to  say,  when  I  leave  you, — I  shall  hasten 
to  dive  for  shelter,  until  the  storm  blows  over.  I  don't  much 
like  living  in  a  cellar  and  wearing  a  smock-frock, — but  those 
concealments  have  something  interesting  in  them,  after  all! 
The  safest  and  snuggest  place  I  know  of  is  the  Pays  Bas,  about 
Thames  Court;  so  I  think  of  hiring  an  apartment  under  ground, 
and  taking  my  meals  at  poor  Lovett's  old  quarters,  the  Mug, — 
the  police  will  never  dream  of  looking  in  those  vulgar  haunts 
for  a  man  of  my  fashion." 

"You  cannot  then  tear  yourself  from  England?"  said 
Tomlinson. 

"No,  hang  it!  the  fellows  are  so  cursed  unmanly  on  the 
other  side  of  the  water.  I  hate  their  wine  and  their  parley  woo, 
Besides,  there  is  no  fun  there." 

Tomlinson.  who  was  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts,  made  no 
comment  on  his  friend's  excellent  reasons  against  travel,  and 
the  pair  now  approached  the  brink  of  the  river.  A  boat  was 
in  waiting  to  receive  and  conduct  to  the  vessel  in  which  he 
had  taken  his  place  for  Calais,  the  illustrious  emigrant.  But 
as  Tomlinson's  eye  fell  suddenly  on  the  rude  boatman  and  the 


366  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

little  boat  which  were  to  bear  him  away  from  his  native  land ; 
as  he  glanced  too,  across  the  blue  waters,  which  a  brisk  wind 
wildly  agitated,  and  thought  how  much  rougher  it  would  be 
at  sea,  where  "his  soul"  invariably  "sickened  at  the  heaving 
wave,"  a  whole  tide  of  deep  and  sorrowful  emotions  rushed 
upon  him. 

He  turned  away:  the  spot  on  which  he  stood  was  a  piece 
of  ground  to  be  let  (as  a  board  proclaimed)  upon  a  building 
lease;  below,  descended  the  steps  which  were  to  conduct  him 
to  the  boat;  around,  the  desolate  space  allowed  him  to  see  in 
far  and  broad  extent  the  spires  and  domes,  and  chimneys  of 
the  great  city  whose  inhabitants  he  might  never  plunder  more. 
As  he  looked  and  looked,  the  tears  started  in  his  eyes,  and 
with  a  gust  of  enthusiasm  little  consonant  with  his  temperate 
and  philosophical  character,  he  lifted  his  right  hand  from  his 
black  breeches-pocket,  and  burst  into  the  following  farewell  to 
the  metropolis  of  his  native  shores: 

"Farewell,  my  beloved  London,  farewell!  Where  shall  I 
ever  find  a  city  like  you?  Never,  till  now,  did  I  feel  how  in- 
expressibly dear  you  were  to  me.  You  have  been  my  father, 
and  my  brother,  and  my  mistress,  and  my  tailor,  and  my  shoe- 
maker, and  my  hatter,  and  my  cook,  and  my  wine-merchant! 
You  and  I  never  misunderstood  each  other.  I  did  not  grum- 
ble when  I  saw  what  fine  houses  and  good  strong  boxes  you 
gave  to  other  men.  No!  I  rejoiced  at  their  prosperity.  I 
delighted  to  see  a  rich  man — my  only  disappointment  was  in 
stumbling  on  a  poor  one.  You  gave  riches  to  my  neighbors ; 
but,  O  generous  London,  you  gave  those  neighbors  to  me! 
Magnificent  streets,  all  Christian  virtues  abide  within  you! 
Charity  is  as  common  as  smoke !  Where,  in  what  corner  of 
the  habitable  world,  shall  I  find  human  beings  with  so  many 
superfluities?  Where  shall  I  so  easily  decoy,  from  benevolent 
credulity,  those  superfluities  to  myself?  Heaven  only  knows, 
my  dear,  dear,  darling  London,  what  I  lose  in  you !  O  public 
charities! — O  public  institutions ! — O  banks  that  belie  mathe- 
matical axioms  and  make  lots  out  of  nothing! — O  ancient  con- 
stitution always  to  be  questioned ! — O  modern  improvements 
that  never  answer! — O  speculations! — O  companies !— O  usury 
laws  which  guard  against  usurers,  by  making  as  many  as  possi- 
ble!— O  churches  in  which  no  one  profits,  save  the  parson,  and 
the  old  women  that  let  pews  of  an  evening! — O  superb  theatres, 
too  small  for  parks,  too  enormous  for  houses,  which  exclude 
comedy  and  comfort,  and  have  a  monopoly  for  performing 
nonsense  gigantically! — O  houses  of  plaster  built  in  a  day! — O 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  361 

palaces  four  yards  high,  with  a  dome  in  the  middle,  meant  to 
be  invisible!* — O  shops  worth  thousands,  and  O  shopkeepers 
not  worth  a  shilling! — O  system  of  credit  by  which  beggars  are 
princes,  and  princes  are  beggars! — O  imprisonment  for  debt, 
which  lets  the  mare  be  stolen,  ad  then  locks  up  the  bridle! — O 
sharpers,  bubblers,  senators,  beaux,  taverns,  brothels,  clubs, 
houses  private  and  public! — O  LONDON,  in  a  word,  receive  my 
last  adieu!  Long  may  you  flourish  in  peace  and  plenteous- 
ness  !  May  your  knaves  be  witty,  and  your  fools  be  rich ! 
May  you  alter  only  two  things — your  damnable  tricks  of  trans- 
portation and  hanging !  Those  are  your  sole  faults ;  but  for 
those  I  would  never  desert  you. — Adieu!" 

Here  Tomlinson  averted  his  head,  and  then  hastily  shaking  the 
hand  of  Long  Ned  with  a  tremulous  and  warm  grasp,  he  hur- 
ried down  the  stairs  and  entered  the  boat.  Ned  remained 
motionless  for  some  moments,  following  him  with  his  eyes  as  he 
sat  at  the  end  of  the  boat,  waving  a  white  pocket  handkerchief. 
At  length,  a  line  of  barges  snatched  him  from  the  sight  of  the 
lingerer,  and  Ned  slowly  turning  away,  muttered — "Yes,  I 
have  always  heard  that  Dame  Lobkins's  was  the  safest  asylum 
for  misfortune  like  mine.  I  will  go  forthwith  in  search  of  a 
lodging,  and  to-morrow  I  will  make  my  breakfast  at  the  Mug!" 

Be  it  our  pleasing  task,  dear  reader,  to  forestall  the  good  rob- 
ber, and  return,  at  the  hour  of  sunrise  on  the  day  following 
Tomlinson's  departure,  to  the  scene  at  which  our  story  com- 
menced. We  are  now  once  more  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Margery 
Lobkins. 

The  room  which  served  so  many  purposes  was  still  the  same 
as  when  Paul  turned  it  into  the  arena  of  his  mischievous 
pranks.  The  dresser,  with  its  shelves  of  mingled  delf  and 
pewter,  occupied  its  ancient  and  important  station.  Only  it 
might  be  noticed  that  the  pewter  was  more  dull  than  of  yore, 
and  that  sundry  cracks  made  their  erratic  wanderings  over  the 
yellow  surface  of  the  delf.  The  eye.  of  the  mistress  had  be- 
come less  keen  than  heretofore,  and  the  care  of  the  handmaid 
had,  of  necessity,  relaxed.  The  tall  clock  still  ticked  in  monoto- 
nous warning,  the  blanket-screen,  haply  innocent  of  soap  since 
we  last  described  it,  many-storied,  and  poly-balladed,  still 
unfolded  its  ample  leaves  "rich  with  the  spoils  of  time."  The 
spit  and  the  musket  yet  hung  from  the  wall  in  amicable  prox- 

*  We  must  not  suppose  this  apostrophe  to  be  an  anachronism  !  Tomlinson,  of  course, 
refers  to  some  palace  of  his  day  ;  one  of  the  boxes — Christinas  boxes — given  to  the  king 
by  his  economical  nation  of  shopkeepers.  We  suppose  it  is  either  pulled  down  or  blown 
down  long  ago  ;  it  is  doubtless  forgotten  by  this  time,  except  by  antiquaries.  Nothing  is 
so  ephemeral  as  great  houses  built  by  the  people.  Your  kings  play  the  deuce  with  their 
playthings. 


362  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

imation.  And  the  long  smooth  form,  "with  many  a  holy  text 
thereon  bestrewn,"  still  afforded  rest  to  the  weary  traveller, 
and  an  object  to  the  vacant  stare  of  Mrs.  Margery  Lobkins, 
as  she  lolled  in  her  opposite  seat  and  forgot  the  world.  But 
poor  Piggy  Lobb!  there  was  the  alteration!  The  soul  of  the 
woman  was  gone!  The  spirit  had  evaporated  from  the  human 
bottle!  She  sat  with  open  mouth  and  glassy  eye  in  her  chair, 
sidling  herself  to  and  fro,  with  the  low,  peevish  sound  of  fret- 
ful age  and  bodily  pain ;  sometimes  this  querulous  murmur 
sharpened  into  a  shrill  but  unmeaning  scold.  "There  now, 
you  gallows  bird !  you  has  taken  the  swipes  without  chalking ; 
you  wants  to  cheat  the  poor  widow:  but  I  sees  you,  I  does! 
Providence  protects  the  aged  and  .the  innocent — oh,  oh !  these 
twinges  will  be  the  death  o'  me.  Where's  Martha?  You  jade, 
you!  you  wiperous  hussy,  bring  the  tape  here:  doesn't  you  see 
how  I  suffers?  Has  you  ho  bowels,  to  let  a  poor  Christian 
cretur  perish  for  want  o'  help !  That's  the  way  with  'em,  that's 
the  way !  No  one  cares  for  I  now — no  one  has  respect  for  the 
gray  'airs  of  the  old!"  And  then  the  voice  dwindled  into  the 
whimpering  "tenor  of  its  way."  Martha,  a  strapping  wench 
with  red  hair  streaming  over  her  "hills  of  snow,"  was  not, 
however,  inattentive  to  the  wants  of  her  mistress.  "Who 
knows,"  said  she  to  a  man  who  sat  by  the  hearth,  drinking  tea 
out  of  a  blue  mug,  and  toasting  with  great  care  two  or  three 
huge  rounds  of  bread,  for  his  own  private  and  especial  nutri- 
ment— "who  knows,"  said  she, "what  we  may  come  to  our- 
selves?" And, so  saying,  she  placed  a  glowing  tumbler  by  her 
mistress's  elbow.  But  in  the  sunken  prostration  of  her  intel- 
lect, the  old  woman  was  insensible  even  to  her  consolation: 
she  sipped  and  drank,  it  is  true ;  but  as  if  the  stream  warmed 
not  benumbed  the  region  through  which  it  passed,  she  con- 
tinued muttering  in  a  crazed  and  groaning  key,  "Is  this  your 
gratitude,  you  sarpent !  why  does  you  not  bring  the  tape,  I 
tells  you?  Am  I  of  a  age  to  drink  water  like  a  oss,  you  nasty 
thing!  Oh,  to  think  as  ever  I  should  live  to  be  desarted!" 

Inattentive  to  these  murmurs,  which  she  felt  unreasonable,  the 
bouncing  Martha  now  quitted  the  room,  to  repair  to  her  "upper 
household"  avocations.  The  man  at  the  hearth  was  the  only 
companion  left  to  the  widow.  Gazing  at  her  for  a  moment,  as 
she  sat  whining,  with  a  rude  compassion  in  his  eye,  and  slowly 
munching  his  toast  which  he  had  now  buttered,  and  placed  in  a 
delf  plate  on  the  hob,  this  person  thus  soothingly  began: 

"Ah,  Dame  Lobkins,  if  so  be  as  ow  little  Paul  vas  a  vith 
you,  it  would  be  a  gallows  comfort  to  you  in  your  latter  hend!" 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  363 

The  name  of  Paul  made  the  good  woman  incline  her  head 
towards  the  speaker ;  a  ray  of  consciousness  shot  through  her 
bedulled  brain. 

"Little  Paul,  eh,  sirs!  where  is  Paul?  Paul,  I  say,  my  ben- 
cull.  Alack!  he's  gone — left  his  poor  old  nurse  to  die  like  a 
cat  in  a  cellar.  Oh,  Dummie,  never  live  to  be  old,  man ! 
They  leave  us  to  oursels,  and  then  takes  away  all  the  lush  with 
'em!  I  has  not  a  drop  o'  comfort  in  the  varsal  world!" 

Dummie,  who  at  this  moment  had  his  own  reasons  for  sooth- 
ing the  dame,  and  was  anxious  to  make  the  niost  of  the  oppor- 
tunity of  a  conversation  as  unwitnessed  as  the  present,  replied 
tenderly ;  and  with  a  cunning  likely  to  promote  his  end  re- 
proached Paul  bitterly  for  never  having  informed  the  dame  of 
his  whereabout  and  his  proceedings.  "But  come,  dame,"  he 
wound  up,  "come,  I  guess  as  how  he  is  better  nor  all  that, 
and  that  you  need  not  beat  your  hold  brains  to  think  where  he 
lies,  or  vot  he's  a  doing.  Blow  me  tight,  mother  Lobb, — I  ax 
pardon,  Mrs.  Margery,  I  should  say, — if  I  vould  not  give  five 
bob,  ay,  and  five  to  the  tail  o'  that,  to  know  what  the  poor  lad 
is  about;  I  takes  a  mortal  hinterest  in  that  'ere  chap!" 

"Oh!  oh!"  groaned  the  old  woman,  on  whose  palsied  sense 
the  astute  inquiries  of  Dummie  Dunnaker  fell  harmless;  "my 
poor  sinful  carcass!  what  a  way  it  be  in!" 

Artfully  again  did  Dummie  Dunnaker,  nothing  defeated, 
renew  his  attack ;  but  fortune  does  not  always  favor  the  wise, 
and  it  failed  Dummie  now,  for  a  twofold  reason :  first,  because 
it  was  not  possible  for  the  dame  to  comprehend  him ;  secondly, 
because  even  if  it  had  been,  she  had  nothing  to  reveal.  Some 
of  Clifford's  pecuniary  gifts  had  been  conveyed  anonymously, 
all  without  direction  or  date;  and,  for  the  most  part  they  had 
been  appropriated  by  the  sage  Martha,  into  whose  hands  they 
fell,  to  her  own  private  uses.  Nor  did  the  dame  require  Clif- 
ford's charity;  for  she  was  a  woman  tolerably  well  off  in  this 
world,  considering  how  near  she  was  waxing  to  another. 
Longer,  however,  might  Dummie  have  tried  his  unavailing 
way,  had  not  the  door  of  the  inn  creaked  on  its  hinges,  and 
the  bulky  form  of  a  tall  man  in  a  smock-frock,  but  with  a 
remarkably  fine  head  of  hair,  darkened  the  threshold.  He 
honored  the  dame,  who  cast  on  him  a  lack-lustre  eye,  with  a 
sulky  yet  ambrosial  nod,  seized  a  bottle  of  spirits  and  a  tumb- 
ler, lighted  a  candle,  drew  a  small  German  pipe  and  a  tobacco- 
box  from  his  pouch,  placed  these  several  luxuries  on  a  small 
table,  wheeled  it  to  a  far  corner  of  the  room,  and  throwing 
himself  into  one  chair,  and  his  legs  into  another,  he  enjoyed 


364  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

the  result  of  his  pains  in  a  moody  and  supercilious  silence. 
Long  and  earnestly  did  the  meek  Dummie  gaze  on  the  face  of 
the  gentleman  before  him.  It  had  been  some  years  since  he 
had  last  beheld  it ;  but  it  was  one  which  did  not  easily  escape 
the  memory ;  and  although  its  proprietor  was  a  man  who  had 
risen  in  the  world,  and  gained  the  height  of  his  profession  (a 
station  far  beyond  the  diurnal  sphere  of  Dummie  Dunnaker), 
and  the  humble  purloiner  was,  therefore,  astonished  to  encoun- 
ter him  in  these  lower  regions;  yet  Dummie's  recollection  car- 
ried him  back  to  a  day  when  they  had  gone  shares  without 
respect  of  persons,  and  been  right  jolly  partners  in  the  prac- 
tical game  of  beggar  my  neighbor.  While,  however,  Dummie 
Dunnaker,  who  was  a  little  inclined  to  be  shy,  deliberated  as 
to  the  propriety  of  claiming  acquaintanceship,  a  dirty  boy, 
with  a  face  which  betokened  the  frost,  as  Dummie  himself  said, 
like  a  plum  dying  of  the  scarlet  fever,  entered  the  room,  with 
a  newspaper  in  his  dexter  paw.  "Great  news! — great  news!" 
cried  the  urchin,  imitating  his  vociferous  originals  in  the  street; 
"all  about  the  famous  Captain  Lovett,  as  large  as  life!" 

"Old  your  blarney,  you  blatter-gowl, "  said  Dummie  rebuk- 
ingly,  and  seizing  the  journal. 

"Master  says  as  how  he  must  have  it  to  send  toClapham,  and 
can't  spare  it  for  more  than  a'our!"  said  the  boy,  as  he  with- 
drew. 

"/  'members  the  day,"  said  Dummie,  with  the  zeal  of  a 
clansman,  "when  the  Mug  took  a  paper  all  to  itsel'  instead  of 
'iring  it  by  the  job  like!" 

Thereon  he  opened  the  paper  with  a  fillip,  and  gave  himself 
up  to  the  lecture.  But  the  tall  stranger,  half  rising  with  a 
start,  exclaimed,  "Can't  you  have  the  manners  to  be  commu- 
nicative?— do  you  think  nobody  cares  about  Captain  Lovett 
but  yourself?" 

On  this,  Dummie  turned  round  on  his  chair,  and,  with  a 
"Blow  me  tight,  you're  velcome,  I'm  sure,"  began  as  fol- 
lows (we  copy  the  paper,  not  the  diction  of  the  reader): 

"The  trial  of  the  notorious  Lovett  commences  this  day. 
Great  exertions  have  been  made  by  people  of  all  classes  to 
procure  seats  in  the  Town  Hall,  which  will  be  full  to  a  degree 
never  before  known  in  this  peaceful  province.  No  less  than 
seven  indictments  are  said  to  await  the  prisoner;  it  has  been 
agreed  that  the  robbery  of  Lord  Mauleverer  should  be  the  first 
to  come  on.  The  principal  witness  in  this  case  against  the 
prisoner  is  understood  to  be  the  King's  evidence,  Mac  Craw- 
ler. No  news,  as  yet,  have  been  circulated  concerning  the 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  365 

suspected  accomplices,  Augustus  Tomlinson  and  Edward  Pep- 
per. It  is  believed  that  the  former  has  left  the  country,  and 
that  the  latter  is  lurking  among  the  low  refuges  of  guilt  with 
which  the  heart  of  the  metropolis  abounds.  Report  speaks 
highly  of  the  person  and  manner  of  Lovett.  He  is  also  sup- 
posed to  be  a  man  of  some  talent,  and  was  fomerly  engaged  in 
an  obscure  periodical,  edited  by  Mac  Grawler,  and  termed  the 
Altenaeum,  or  Asinaeum.  Nevertheless,  we  apprehend  that  his 
origin  is  remarkably  low,  and  suitable  to  the  nature  of  his  pur- 
suits. The  prisoner  will  be  most  fortunate  in  a  judge.  Never 
did  any  one  holding  the  same  high  office  as  Sir  William  Bran- 
don earn  an  equal  reputation  in  so  short  a  time.  The  Whigs 
are  accustomed  to  sneer  at  us,  when  we  insist  on  the  private 
virtues  of  our  public  men.  Let  them  look  to  Sir  William 
Brandon,  and  confess  that  the  austerest  morals  may  be  linked 
with  the  soundest  knowledge  and  the  most  brilliant  genius. 

The  opening  address  of  the  learned  judge  to  the  jury  at 

is  perhaps  the  most  impressive  and  solemn  piece  of  eloquence 
in  the  English  language!"  A  cause  for  this  eulogium  might 
haply  be  found  in  another  part  of  the  paper,  in  which  it  was 
said,  "Among  the  higher  circles,  we  understand,  the  rumor  has 
gone  forth,  that  Sir  William  Brandon  is  to  be  recalled  to  his 
old  parliamentary  career  in  a  more  elevated  scene.  So  highly 
are  this  gentleman's  talents  respected  by  his  Majesty  and  the 
ministers,  that  they  are,  it  is  reported,  anxious  to  secure  his 
assistance  in  the  House  of  Lords!" 

When  Dummie  had  spelt  his  "toilsome  march"  through  the 
first  of  the  above  extract,  he  turned  round  to  the  tall  stranger, 
and  eyeing  him  with  a  sort  of  winking  significance,  said : 

"So  Mac  Grawler  peaches!  blows  the  gaff  on  his  pals,  eh !  Vel 
now,  I  always  suspected  that  'ere  son  of  a  gun!  Do  you 
know,  he  used  to  be  at  the  Mug  many's  a  day,  a  teaching  our 
little  Paul,  and  says  I  to  Piggy  Lobb,  says  I,  'Blow  me  tight, 
but  that  cove  is  a  queer  one !  and  if  he  does  not  come  to  be 
scragged,'  says  I,  'it  vill  only  be  because  he'll  turn  a  rusty, 
and  scrag  one  of  his  pals ! '  So  you  sees — (here  Dummie  looked 
round,  and  his  voice  sank  into  a  whisper) — so  you  sees,  Mees- 
ter  Pepper,  I  vas  no  fool  there ! ' ' 

Long  Ned  dropped  his  pipe,  and  said  sourly,  and  with  a 
suspicious  frown,  "What!  you  know  me?" 

"To  be  sure  and  sartain  I  does,"  answered  little  Dummie, 
walking  to  the  table  where  the  robber  sat.  "Does  not  you 
know  I?" 

Ned  regarded  the  interrogator  with  a  sullen  glance,  which 


366  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

gradually  brightened  into  knowledge.  "Ah!"  said  he,  with 
the  air  of  a  Brummel,  "Mr.  Bummie,  or  Dummie,  I  think,  eh! 
Shake  a  paw — I'm  glad  to  see  you. — Recollect  the  last  time  I 
saw  you,  you  rather  affronted  me.  Never  mind.  I  dare  say 
you  did  not  mean  it."  Encouraged  by  this  affable  reception 
from  the  highwayman,  though  a  little  embarrassed  by  Ned's 
allusion  to  former  conduct  on  his  part,  which  he  felt  was  just, 
Dummie  grinned,  pushed  a  stool  near  Ned,  sat  himself  down, 
and  carefully  avoiding  any  immediate  answer  to  Ned's  com- 
plaint, he  rejoined : 

"Do  you  know,  Meester  Pepper,  you  struck  I  all  of  a  heap. 
I  could  not  have  sposed  as  how  you'd  condescend  nowadays 
to  come  to  the  Mug,  vhere  I  never  seed  you  but  once  afore. 
Lord  love  ye,  they  says  as  'ow  you  go  to  all  the  fine  places  in 
ruffles  with  a  pair  of  silver  pops  in  your  vaistcoat  pocket !  Vy, 
the  boys  hereabouts  say  that  you  and  Meester  Tomlinson,  and 
this  'ere  poor  devil  in  quod,  vere  the  finest  gemmen  in  town ; 
and,  Lord,  for  to  think  of  your  ciwility  to  a  pitiful  rag- 
merchant,  like  I!" 

"Ah!"  said  Ned  gravely,  "there  are  sad  principles  afloat 
now.  They  want  to  do  away  with  all  distinctions  in  ranks, — 
to  make  a  duke  no  better  than  his  valet,  and  a  gentleman  high- 
wayman class  with  a  filcher  of  fogies.*  But,  dammee,  if  I 
don't  think  misfortune  levels  us  all  quite  enough,  and  misfor- 
tune brings  me  here,  little  Dummie!" 

"Ah!   you  vants  to  keep  out  of  the  vay  of  the  bulkies!" 

"Right.  Since  poor  Lovett  was  laid  by  the  heels,  which  I 
must  say  was  the  fault  of  his  deuced  gentlemanlike  behavior 
to  me  and  Augustus  (you've  heard  of  Guz,  you  say),  the  knot 
of  us  seems  quite  broken.  One's  own  friends  look  inclined  to 
play  one  false ;  and  really,  the  queer  cuffins  hover  so  sharply 
upon  us,  that  I  thought  it  safe  to  duck  for  a  time.  So  I  have 
taken  a  lodging  in  a  cellar,  and  I  intend  for  the  next  three 
months  to  board  at  the  Mug.  I  have  heard  that  I  may  be  sure 
of  lying  snug  here ;  Dummie,  your  health !  Give  us  the 
baccy!" 

"I  say,  Meester  Pepper,"  said  Dummie,  clearing  his  throat, 
when  he  had  obeyed  the  request,  "can  you  tell  I,  if  so  be  you 
as  met  in  your  travels  our  little  Paul?  Poor  chap!  You  knows 
as  ow  and  vy  he  vas  sent  to  quod  by  Justice  Burnflat.  Vel, 
ven  he  got  out,  he  vent  to  the  devil,  or  summut  like  it,  and  ve 
have  not  card  a  vord  of  him  since.  You  'members  the  lad — a 
'nation  fine  cull,  tall  and  straight  as  a  harrow!" 

*  Pickpocket, 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  367 

"Why,  you  fool,"  said  Ned,  "don't  you  know," — then 
checking  himself  suddenly, — "ah!  by  the  by,  that  rigmarole 
oath! — I  was  not  to  tell;  though  now  it's  past  caring  for,  I 
fear!  It  is  no  use  looking  after  the  seal  when  the  letter's 
burnt." 

"Blow  me,"  cried  Dunnaker,  with  unaffected  vehemence,  "I 
sees  as  how  you  know  vot's  come  of  he!  Many's  the  good 
turn  I'll  do  you,  if  you  vill  but  tell  I." 

"Why,  does  he  owe  you  a  dozen  bobs;*  or  what,  Dummie?" 
said  Ned. 

"Not  he — not  he,"  cried  Dummie. 

"What  then,  you  want  to  do  him  a  mischief  of  some  sort?" 

"Do  little  Paul  a  mischief !"  ejaculated  Dummie;  "vyl've 
known  the  cull  ever  since  he  was  that  high !  No,  but  I  vants 
to  do  him  a  great  sarvice,  Meester  Pepper,  and  myself  too, — 
and  you  to  boot,  for  aught  that  I  know,  Meester  Pepper." 

"Humph!  "said  Ned;  "humph!  what  do  you  mean?  I  do, 
it  is  true,  know  where  Paul  is  but  you  must  tell  me  first  why 
you  wish  to  know,  otherwise  you  may  ask  your  grandfather  for 
me." 

A  long,  sharp,  wistful  survey  did  Mr.  Dummie  Dunnaker 
cast  around  him  before  he  rejoined.  All  seemed  safe  and  con- 
venient for  confidential  communication.  The  supine  features  of 
Mrs.  Lobkins  were  hushed  in  a  drowsy  stupor :  even  the  gray 
cat  that  lay  by  the  fire  was  curled  in  the  embrace  of  Morpheus. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  in  a  close  whisper  that  Dummie  spoke. 

"I  dares  be  bound,  Meester  Pepper,  that  you  ' members  vel 
ven  Harry  Cook,  the  great  highvayman, — poor  fellow!  he's 
gone  vhere  ve  must  all  go, — brought  you,  then  quite  a  gos- 
soonf  for  the  first  time,  to  the  little  back  parlor  at  the  Cock 
and  Hen,  Devereux  Court." 

Ned  nodded  assent. 

And  you  'members  as  how  I  met  Harry  and  you  there,  and  I 
vas  all  afeard  at  you — cause  vy?  I  had  never  seen  you  afore, 
and  ve  vas  a-going  to  crack  a  swell's  crib.J  And  Harry  spoke 
up  for  you,  and  said  as  ow,  though  you  had  just  gone  on  the 
town,  you  was  already  prime  up  to  gammon:  you  'members, 
eh?" 

"Ay,  I  remember  all,"  said  Ned;   "it  was  the  first  and  only 

*  Shillings. 

t  The  reader  has  probably  observed  the  use  made  by  Dummie  and  Mrs.  Lobkins  of  Irish 
phraseology  or  pronunciation.  This  is  a  remarkable  trait  in  the  dialect  of  the  lowest  orders 
in  London,  owing,  we  suppose,  to  their  constant  association  with  emigrants  from  "  the  first 
flower  of  the  earth."  Perhaps  it  is  a  modish  affectation  among  the  gentry  of  St.  Giles,  just 
as  w»  <sUe  out  our  mother-tongue  with  French  at  Mayfair. 

\  Break  into  a  gentleman's  house. 


368  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

house  I  ever  had  a  hand  in  breaking  into.  Harry  was  a  fellow 
of  low  habits,  so  I  dropped  his  acquaintance,  and  took  solely 
to  the  road,  or  a  chance  ingenuity  now  and  then.  I  have  no 
idea  of  a  gentleman  turning  cracksman."  * 

"Vel,  so  you  vent  with  us,  and  we  slipped  you  through  a  pane 
in  the  kitchen  vindow.  You  vas  the  least  of  us,  big  as  you  be 
now,  and  you  vent  round,  and  opened  the  door  for  us,  and  ven 
you  had  opened  the  door,  you  saw  a  voman  had  joined  us,  and 
you  were  a  funked  then,  and  stayed  vithout  the  crib,  to  keep 
vatch  vhile  ve  vent  in." 

"Well,  well,"  cried  Ned,  "what  the  devil  has  all  this  rigmarole 
got  to  do  with  Paul?" 

"Now  don't  be  glimflashey,  but  let  me  go  on  smack  right 
about.  Veil,  ven  ve  came  out  you  minds  as  ow  the  voman  had 
a  bundle  in  her  arms,  and  you  spake  to  her ;  and  she  answered 
you  roughly,  and  left  us  all,  and  vent  straight  home ;  and  ve 
vent  and  fenced  the  swag\  that  wery  night,  and  afterwards 
nap  fed  the  regulars.].  And  sure  you  made  us  laugh  'artily, 
Meester  Pepper,  when  you  said,  says  you,  'That  'ere  vomin  is 
a  rum  blowen?'  So  she  vas,  Meester  Pepper!" 

"Oh  spare  me,"  said  Ned  affectedly,  "and  make  haste;  you 
keep  me  all  in  the  dark.  By  the  way,  I  remember  that  you  joked 
me  about  the  bundle ;  and  when  I  asked  what  the  woman  had 
wrapped  in  it,  you  swore  it  was  a  child.  Rather  more  likely 
that  the  girl,  whoever  she' was,  would  have  left  a  child  behind 
her  than  carried  one  off ! "  The  face  of  Dummie  waxed  big  with 
conscious  importance. 

"Veil  now,  you  wouki  not  believe  us;  but  it  vas  all  true; 
that  ere  bundle  was  the  voman' s  child,  I  spose  an  unnatural  von 
by  the  gemman :  she  let  us  into  the  ouse  on  condition  we  helped 
her  off  with  it.  And,  blow  me  tight,  but  ve  paid  ourselves  vel 
for  our  trouble.  That  ere  voman  was  a  strange  cretur ;  they 
say  she  had  been  a  lord's  blowen;  but  howsomever,  she  was  as 
ot-eaded  and  hodd  as  if  she  had  been.  There  vas  hold  Nick's 
hown  row  made  on  the  matter,  and  the  revard  for  our  (defec- 
tion vas  so  great,  that  as  you  vas  not  much  tried  yet,  Harry 
thought  it  best  for  to  take  you  vith  im  down  to  the  country,  and 
told  you  as  ow  it  vas  all  a  flam  about  the  child  in  the  bundle!" 

' '  Faith, ' '  said  Ned,  ' '  I  believed  him  readily  enough ;  and  poor 
Harry  was  twisted  shortly  after,  and  I  went  into  Ireland  for 
safety,  where  I  -stayed  two  years, — and  deuced  good  claret  I 
got  there!" 

"So,  vhiles  you  vas  there,"  continued  Dummie,  "poor  Judy, 

*"  Purglar.  t  Sold  the  booty.  J  Took  our  share*. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  369 

the  voman,  died, — she  died  in  this  wery  ouse,  and  left  the  hor- 
phan  to  the  (af)-fection  of  Piggy  Lob,  who  was  'nation  fond 
of  it  sure/y.  Oh !  but  I  'members  vot  a  night  it  vas  ven  poor 
Judy  died;  the  vind  vistled  like  mad,  the  rain  tumbled  about 
as  if  it  had  got  a  holyday ;  and  there  the  poor  creature  lay 
raving  just  over-ed  of  this  room  we  sits  in!  Laus-a-me,  vot 
a  sight  it  vas!" 

Here  Dummie  paused,  and  seemed  to  recall  in  imagination 
the  scene  he  had  witnessed ;  but  over  the  mind  of  Long  Ned  a 
ray  of  light  broke  slowly. 

"Whew!"  said  he,  lifting  up  his  forefinger;  "whew!  I  smell  a 
rat;  this  stolen  child,  then,  was  no  other  than  Paul.  But, 
pray,  to  whom  did  the  house  belong?  for  that  fact  Harry  never 
communicated  to  me.  I  only  heard  the  owner  was  a  lawyer, 
or  parson,  or  some  such  thing." 

"Vy  now,  I'll  tell  you,  but  don't  be  glimflashey.  So,  you 
see,  ven  Judy  died,  and  Harry  was  scragged,  I  vas  the  only  von 
living  who  vas  up  to  the  secret ;  and  vhen  Mother  Lob  vas  a 
taking  a  drop  to  comfort  her  vhen  Judy  vent  off,  I  hopens  a  great 
box  in  which  poor  Judy  kept  her  duds  and  rattletraps,  and 
sure/y  I  finds  at  the  bottom  of  the  box  hever  so  many  letters  and 
sich  like, — for  I  knew  as  ow  they  vas  there;  so  I  vhips  these 
off  and  carries  'em  'ome  with  me,  and  soon  arter,  Mother  Lob 
sold  me  the  box  o'  duds  for  two  quids — 'cause  vy?  I  vas  a  rag 
marchant!  So  now,  I  'solved,  since  the  secret  vas  all  in  my 
hown  keeping,  to  keep  it  as  tight  as  vinkey :  for  first,  you  sees 
as  ow  I  vas  afeard  I  should  be  hanged  if  I  vent  for  to  tell, — 
'cause  vy?  I  stole  a  vatch,  and  lots  more,  as  veil  as  the  hurchin; 
and  next  I  vas  afeard  as  ow  the  mother  might  come  back  and 
haunt  me  the  same  as  Sail  haunted  Villy,  for  it  vas  a  orrid  night 
vhen  her  soul  took  ving.  And  hover  and  above  this,  Meester 
Pepper,  I  thought  sammut  might  turn  hup  by  and  by,  in  vhich 
it  vould  be  best  for  I  to  keep  my  hown  counsel  and  nab  the 
revard,  if  I  hever  durst  make  myself  known." 

Here  Dummie  proceeded  to  narrate  how  frightened  he  had 
been  lest  Ned  should  discover  all ;  when  (as  it  may  be  remem- 
bered, Pepper  informed  Paul  at  the  beginning  of  this  history)  he 
encountered  that  worthy  at  Dame  Lobkins's  house, — how  this 
fear  had  induced  him  to  testify  to  Pepper  that  coldness  and 
rudeness  which  had  so  enraged  the  haughty  highwayman,  and 
how  great  had  been  his  relief  and  delight  at  finding  that  Ned  re- 
turned to  the  Mug  no  more.  He  next  proceeded  to  inform  his 
new  confidant  of  his  meeting  with  the  father  (the  sagacious 
reader  knows  where  and  when),  and  of  what  took  place  at  that 


370  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

event.  He  said  how,  in  his  first  negotiation  with  the  father, 
prudently  resolving  to  communicate  drop  by  drop  such  informa- 
tion as  he  possessed,  he  merely,  besides  confessing  to  a  share  in 
the  robbery,  stated  that  he  thought  he  knew  the  house,  etc.,  to 
which  the  infant  had  been  consigned, — and  that,  if  so,  it  was 
still  alive;  but  that  he  would  inquire.  He  then  related  how 
the  sanguine  father,  who  saw  that  hanging  Dummie  for  the  rob- 
bery of  his  house  might  not  be  half  so  likely  a  method  to  recover 
his  son  as  bribery  and  conciliation,  not  only  forgave  him  his  for- 
mer outrage,  but  whetted  his  appetite  to  the  search  by  rewarding 
him  for  his  disclosure.  He  then  proceeded  to  state  how,  un- 
able anywhere  to  find  Paul,  or  any  trace  of  him,  he  amused 
the  sire  from  time  to  time  with  forged  excuses ;  how,  at  first, 
the  sums  he  received  made  him  by  no  means  desirous  to  ex- 
pedite a  discovery  that  would  terminate  such  satisfactory  re- 
ceipts ;  how  at  length  the  magnitude  of  the  proffered  reward, 
joined  to  the  threats  of  the  sire,  had  made  him  become  seri- 
ously anxious  to  learn  the  real  fate  and  present  "whereabout" 
of  Paul ;  how,  the  last  time  he  had  seen  the  father,  he  had, 
by  way  of  propitiation  and  first  fruit,  taken  to  him  all  the 
papers  left  by  the  unhappy  mother,  and  secreted  by  himself; 
and  how  he  was  now  delighted  to  find  that  Ned  was  acquainted 
with  Paul's  address.  Since  he  despaired  of  finding  Paul  by 
his  own  exertions  alone,  he  became  less  tenacious  of  his  se- 
cret, and  he  now  proffered  Ned,  on  discovery  of  Paul,  a  third 
of  that  reward,  the  whole  of  which  he  had  once  hoped  to 
engross. 

Ned's  eyes  and  mouth  opened  at  this  proposition.  "But  the 
name, — the  name  of  the  father?  you  have  not  told  me  that 
yet!"  cried  he  impatiently. 

"Noa,  noa!"  said  Dummie  archly,  "  I  doesn't  tell  you  all, 
till  you  tells  I  summut.  Vhere's  little  Paul,  I  say,  and  vhere 
be  us  to  get  at  him?" 

Ned  heaved  a  sigh. 

"As  for  the  oath,"  said  he  musingly,  "it  would  be  a  sin  to 
keep  it,  now  that  to  break  it  can  do  him  no  harm,  and  may  do 
him  good ;  especially  as,  in  case  of  imprisonment  or  death,  the 
oath  is  not  held  to  be  binding:  yet  I  fear  it  is  too  late  for  the 
reward.  The  father  will  scarcely  thank  you  for  finding  his 
son! — Know,  Dummie,  that  Paul  is  in — gaol,  and  that  he  is 
one  and  the  same  person  as  Captain  Lovett!" 

Astonishment  never  wrote  in  more  legible  characters  than 
she  now  displayed  on  the  rough  features  of  Dummie  Dunnaker. 
So  strong  are  the  sympathies  of  a  profession  compared  with 


PAUL   CLlFFOkD.  $?t 

ail  others,  that  Dummie's  first  confused  thought  was  that  of 
pride.  "The  great  Captain  Lovett!"  he  faltered.  "Little  Paul 
at  the  top  of  the  profession!  Lord,  Lord! — I  always  said  as 
how  he'd  the  hambition  to  rise!" 

"Well,  well,  but  the  father's  name?" 

At  this  question,  the  expression  of  Dummie's  face  fell, — a 
sudden  horror  struggled  to  his  eyes — 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

"  Why  is  it  that,  at  moments,  there  creeps  over  us  an  awe,  a  terror,  over- 
powering but  undefined  ?  Why  is  it  that  we  shudder  without  a  cause,  and 
feel  the  warm  life-blood  stand  still  in  its  courses  ?  Are  the  dead  too  near  ?" 

— Falkland. 

****** 
"  Ha  !  sayest  thou  ?     Hideous  thought,  I  feel  it  twine 
O'er  my  iced  heart,  as  curls  around  his  prey 
The  sure  and  deadly  serpent  ! 

****** 
What  !  in  the  hush  and  in  the  solitude 
Pass'd  that  dead  soul  away  ?  " — Love  and  Hatred. 

THE  evening  prior  to  that  morning  in  which  the  above  con- 
versation occurred,  Brandon  passed  alone  in  his  lodging  at 

— .  He  had  felt  himself  too  unwell  to  attend  the  customary 
wassail,  and  he  sat  indolently  musing  in  the  solitude  of  the  old- 
fashioned  chamber  to  which  he  was  consigned.  There,  two 
wax  candles  on  the  smooth,  quaint  table  dimly  struggled  against 
the  gloom  of  heavy  panels,  which  were  relieved  at  frequent  in- 
tervals by  portraits  in  oaken  frames,  dingy,  harsh,  and  impor- 
tant with  the  pomp  of  laced  garments  and  flowing  wigs.  The 
predilection  of  the  landlady  for  modern  tastes  had,  indeed,  on 
each  side  of  the  huge  fireplace,  suspended  more  novel  master- 
pieces of  the  fine  arts.  In  emblematic  gorgeousness  hung  the 
pictures  of  the  four  Seasons,  buxom  wenches  all,  save  Winter, 
who  was  deformedly  bodied  forth  in  the  likeness  of  an  aged 
carle.  These  were  interspersed  by  an  engraving  of  Lord  Maul- 
everer,  the  lieutenant  of  the  neighboring  county,  looking  ex- 
tremely majestical  in  his  peer's  robes;  and  by  three  typifica- 
tions  of  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity — ladies  with  whom  it  may  be 
doubted  if  the  gay  earl  ever  before  cultivated  so  close  an  in- 
timacy. Curtains,  of  that  antique  chintz  in  which  fasces  of 
stripes  are  alternated  by  rows  of  flowers,  filled  the  interstices  of 


37^  i>AUL    CLIFFORD. 

three  windows ;  a  heavy  sideboard  occupied  the  greater  portion 
of  one  side  of  the  room ;  and  on  the  opposite  side,  in  the  rear 
of  Brandon,  a  vast  screen  stretched  its  slow  length  along,  and  re- 
lieved the  unpopulated  and,  as  it  were,  desolate  comfort  of  the 
apartment. 

Pale  and  imperfectly  streamed  the  light  upon  Brandon's 
face,  as  he  sat  in  his  large  chair,  leaning  his  cheek  on  one 
hand,  and  gazing  with  the  unconscious  earnestness  of  ab- 
straction on  the  clear  fire.  At  that  moment  a  whole  phalanx 
of  gloomy  thought  was  sweeping  in  successive  array  across  his 
mind.  His  early  ambition,  his  ill-omened  marriage,  the  causes 
of  his  after-rise  in  the  wrong-judging  world,  the  first  dawn  of 
his  reputation,  his  rapid  and  flattering  successes,  his  present 
elevation,  his  aspiring  hope  of  far  higher  office,  and  more  pa- 
trician honors — all  these  phantoms  passed  before  him  in  check- 
ered shadow  and  light:  but  ever  with  each  stalked  one  dis- 
quieting and  dark  remembrance — the  loss  of  his  only  son. 

Weaving  his  ambition  with  the  wish  to  revive  the  pride  of  his 
hereditary  name,  every  acquisition  of  fortune  or  of  fame  ren- 
dered him  yet  more  anxious  to  find  the  only  one  who  could  per- 
petuate these  hollow  distinctions  to  his  race. 

' '  I  shall  recover  him  yet ! "  he  broke  out  suddenly  and  aloud. 
As  he  spoke,  a  quick — darting — spasmodic  pain  ran  shivering 
through  his  whole  frame,  and  then  fixed  for  one  instant  on  his 
heart  with  a  gripe  like  the  talons  of  a  bird ;  it  passed  away, 
and  was  followed  by  a  deadly  sickness.  Brandon  rose,  and 
filling  himself  a  large  tumbler  of  water,  drank  with  avidity. 
The  sickness  passed  off  like  the  preceding  pain;  but  the  sen- 
sation had  of  late  been  often  felt  by  Brandon  and  disregarded, — 
for  few  persons  were  less  afflicted  with  the  self-torture  of  hypo- 
chondria; but  now,  that  night,  whether  it  was  more  keen  than 
usual,  or  whether  his  thought  had  touched  on  the  string  that 
jars  naturally  on  the  most  startling  of  human  anticipations,  we 
know  not,  but,  as  he  resumed  his  seat,  the  idea  of  his  approach- 
ing dissolution  shot  like  an  ice-bolt  through  his  breast. 

So  intent  was  this  scheming  man  upon  the  living  objects  of 
the  world,  and  so  little  were  his  thoughts  accustomed  to  turn 
towards  the  ultimate  goal  of  all  things,  that  this  idea,  obtrud- 
ing itself  abruptly  upon  him,  startled  him  with  a  ghastly  awe. 
He  felt  the  color  rush  from  his  cheek,  and  a  tingling  and 
involuntary  pain  ran  wandering  through  the  channels  of  his 
blood,  even  from  the  roots  of  the  hair  to  the  soles  of  his  feet. 
But  the  stern  soul  of  Brandon  was  not  one  which  shadows  could 
Vang  affright.  He  nerved  himself  to  meet  the  grim  thqught  thus 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  3^ 

forced  upon  nis  mental  eye,  and  he  gazed  on  it  with  a  steady 
and  enduring  look. 

"Well,"  thought  he,  "is  my  hour  coming,  or  have  I  yet  the 
ordinary  term  of  mortal  nature  to  expect?  It  is  true,  I  have 
lately  suffered  these  strange  revulsions  of  the  frame  with  some- 
what of  an  alarming  frequency :  perhaps  this  medicine,  which 
healed  the  anguish  of  one  infirmity,  has  produced  another  more 
immediately  deadly?  Yet  why  should  I  think  this?  My  sleep 
is  sound  and  calm,  my  habits  temperate,  my  mind  active  and 
clear  as  in  its  best  days.  In  my  youth,  I  never  played  the  traitor 
with  my  constitution ;  why  should  it  desert  me  at  the  very 
threshold  of  my  age?  Nay,  nay,  these  are  but  passing  twitches, 
chills  of  the  blood  that  begins  to  wax  thin.  Shall  I  learn  to 
be  less  rigorous  in  my  diet?  Perhaps  wine  may  reward  my  ab- 
stinence, in  avoiding  it  for  my  luxuries,  by  becoming  a  cordial 
to  my  necessities !  Ay,  I  will  consult — I  will  consult,  I  must 
not  die  yet.  I  have — let  me  see,  three — four  grades  to  gain 
before  the  ladder  is  scaled.  And,  above  all,  I  must  regain  my 
child!  Lucy  married  to  Mauleverer,  myself  a  peer,  my  son 
wedded  to — whom?  Pray  God  he  be  not  married  already!  My 
nephews  and  my  children  nobles!  the  house  of  Brandon  restored; 
my  power  high  in  the  upward  gaze  of  men ;  my  fame  set  on  a. 
more  lasting  basis  than  a  skill  in  the  quirks  of  law :  these  are 
yet  to  come,  these  I  will  not  die  till  I  have  enjoyed !  Men  die 
not  till  their  destinies  are  fulfilled.  The  spirit  that  swells  and 
soars  within  me  says  that  the  destiny  of  William  Brandon  is 
but  half  begun!" 

With  this  conclusion,  Brandon  sought  his  pillow.  What  were 
the  reflections  of  the  prisoner  whom  he  was  to  judge?  Need 
we  ask?  Let  us  picture  to  ourselves  his  shattered  health,  the 
languor  of  sickness  heightening  the  gloom  which  makes  the 
very  air  of  a  gaol, — his  certainty  of  the  doom  to  be  passed 
against  him,  his  knowledge  that  the  uncle  of  Lucy  Brandon  was 
to  be  his  judge,  that  Mauleverer  was  to  be  his  accuser ;  and  that 
in  all  human  probability  the  only  woman  he  had  ever  loved 
must  sooner  or  later  learn  the  criminality  of  his  life  and  the 
ignominy  of  his  death :  let  us  but  glance  at  the  above  blackness 
of  circumstances  that  surrounded  him,  and  it  would  seem  that 
there  is  but  little  doubt  as  to  the  complexion  of  his  thoughts ! 
Perhaps,  indeed,  even  in  that  terrible  and  desolate  hour,  one 
sweet  face  shone  on  him,  "and  dashed  the  darkness  all  away." 
Perhaps,  too,  whatever  might  be  the  stings  of  his  conscience, 
one  thought,  one  remembrance  of  a  temptation  mastered,  and  a 
sin  escaped,  brought  to  his  eyes  tears  that  were  sweet  and  healing 


374  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

in  their  source.  But  the  heart  of  a  man,  in  Clifford's  awful 
situation,  is  dark  and  inscrutable;  and  often,  when  the  wildest 
and  gloomiest  external  circumstances  surround  us,  their  reflec- 
tion sleeps  like  a  shadow,  calm  and  still  upon  the  mind. 

The  next  morning,  the  whole  town  of (a  town  in  which 

we  regret  to  say,  an  accident  once  detained  ourself  for  three 
wretched  days,  and  which  we  can,  speaking  therefore  from  pro- 
found experience,  assert  to  be  in  ordinary  times  the  most  melan- 
choly and  peopleless-looking  congregation  of  houses  that  a  sober 
imagination  can  conceive)  exhibited  a  scene  of  such  bustle,  ani- 
mation, and  jovial  anxiety,  as  the  trial  for  life  or  death  to  a 
fellow-creature  can  alone  excite  in  the  phlegmatic  breasts  of  the 
English.  Around  the  court  the  crowd  thickened  with  every 
moment,  until  the  whole  market-place,  in  which  the  town-hall 
was  situated,  became  one  living  mass.  The  windows  of  the 
houses  were  filled  with  women,  some  of  whom  had  taken  that 
opportunity  to  make  parties  to  breakfast;  and  little  round 
tables,  with  tea  and  toast  on  them,  caught  the  eyes  of  the  grin- 
ning mobbists  as  they  gaped  impatiently  upwards. 

"Ben,"  said  a  stout  yeoman,  tossing  up  a  halfpenny,  and 
catching  the  said  coin  in  his  right  hand,  which  he  immediately 
covered  with  the  left, — "Ben,  heads  or  tails  that  Lovett  is 
hanged;  heads  hanged,  tails  not,  for  a  crown." 

"Petticoats,  to  be  sure,"  quoth  Ben,  eating  an  apple;  and  it 
was  heads! 

' '  Dammee,  you've  lost ! "  cried  the  yeoman,  rubbing  his  rough 
hands  with  glee. 

It  would  have  been  a  fine  sight  for  Asmodeus,  could  he 
have  perched  on  one  of  the  house-tops  of  the  market-place 

of  and  looked  on  the  murmuring    and  heaving  sea  of 

mortality  below.  Oh !  the  sight  of  a  crowd  round  a  court  of 
law,  or  a  gibbet,  ought  to  make  the  devil  split  himself  with 
laughter. 

While  the  mob  was  fretting,  and  pushing,  and  swearing,  and 
grinning,  and  betting,  and  picking  pockets,  and  trampling  feet, 
and  tearing  gowns,  and  scrambling  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
doors  and  windows  of  the  court,  Brandon  was  slowly  conclud- 
ing his  abstemious  repast  preparatory  to  attendance  on  his  ju- 
dicial duties.  His  footman  entered  with  a  letter.  Sir  William 
glanced  rapidly  over  the  seal  (one  of  those  immense  sacrifices 
of  wax  used  at  that  day),  adorned  with  a  huge  coat  of  arms, 
surmounted  with  an  earl's  coronet,  and  decorated  on  either 
side  with  those  supporters  so  dear  to  heraldic  taste.  He  then 
tore  open  the  letter,  and  read  as  follows : 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  375 

"Mv  DEAR  SIR  WILLIAM: 

"You  know  that,  in  the  last  conversation  I  had  the  honor  to 
hold  with  you,  I  alluded,  though  perhaps  somewhat  distantly, 
to  the  esteem  which  His  Majesty  had  personally  expressed  for 
your  principles  and  talents,  and  his  wish  to  testify  it  at  the 
earliest  opportunity.  There  will  be,  as  you  are  doubtless 
aware,  an  immediate  creation  of  four  peerages.  Your  name 
stands  second  on  the  list.  The  choice  of  title  His  Majesty 
graciously  leaves  to  you ;  but  he  has  hinted,  that  the  respect- 
able antiquity  of  your  family  would  make  him  best  pleased 
were  you  to  select  the  name  of  your  own  family-seat,  which,  if 
I  mistake  not,  is  Warlock.  You  will  instruct  me  at  your  lei- 
sure as  to  the  manner  in  which  the  patent  should  be  made  out, 
touching  the  successions,  etc.  Perhaps  (excuse  the  license  of 
an  old  friend)  this  event  may  induce  you  to  forsake  your  long 
cherished  celibacy.  I  need  not  add  that  this  accession  of  rank 
will  be  accompanied  by  professional  elevation.  You  will  see 

by  the  papers  that  the  death  of leaves  vacant  the  dignity 

of  Chief  Baron ;  and  I  am  at  length  empowered  to  offer  you  a 
station  proportioned  to  your  character  and  talents. 
"With  great  consideration, 
"Believe  me,  my  dear  Sir, 

"Very  truly  yours, 
<  i 

"  (Private  and  Confidential.)  " 

Brandon's  dark  eyes  glanced  quickly  from  the  signature  of 
the  Premier,  affixed  to  this  communication,  towards  the  mirror 
opposite  him.  He  strode  to  it,  and  examined  his  own  counte- 
nance with  a  long  and  wistful  gaze.  Never,  we  think,  did 
youthful  gallant  about  to  repair  to  the  trysting  spot,  in  which 
fair  looks  make  the  greatest  of  earthly  advantages,  gaze  more 
anxiously  on  the  impartial  glass  than  now  did  the  ascetic  and 
scornful  judge;  and  never,  we  ween,  did  the  eye  of  the  said 
gallant  retire  with  a  more  satisfied  and  triumphant  expression. 

"Yes,  yes!"  muttered  the  judge,  "no  sign  of  infirmity  is 
yet  written  here ;  the  blood  flows  clear  and  warm  enough,  the 
cheek  looks  firm  too,  and  passing  full,  for  one  who  was  always 
of  the  lean  kind.  Aha !  this  letter  is  a  cordial,  an  elixir  viia. 
I  feel  as  if  a  new  lease  were  granted  to  the  reluctant  tenant. 
Lord  Warlock,  the  first  Baron  of  Warlock, — Lord  Chief 
Baron. — What  next?" 

As  he  spoke,  he  strode  unconsciously  away ;  folding  his  arms 
with  that  sort  of  joyous  and  complacent  gesture  which  implies 


376  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

the  idea  of  a  man  hugging  himself  in  a  silent  delight.  Assur- 
edly, had  the  most  skillful  physician  then  looked  upon  the 
ardent  and  all-lighted  face,  the  firm  step,  the  elastic  and  mus- 
cular frame,  the  vigorous  air  of  Brandon,  as  he  mentally  con- 
tinued his  soliloquy,  he  would  have  predicted  for  him  as  fair  a 
grasp  on  longevity  as  the  chances  of  mortal  life  will  allow. 
He  was  interrupted  by  the  servant  entering. 

"It  is  twenty-five  minutes  after  nine,  sir,"  said  he  respect- 
fully. 

"Sir, — sir!"  repeated  Brandon.     "Ah,  well!   so  late!" 
"Yes,  sir,  and  the  sheriff's  carriage  is  almost  at  the  door." 
"Humph, — Minister, — Peer, — Warlock, —  succession/ —  My 
son,  my  son! — would  to  God  that  I  could  find  thee!" 

Such  were  Brandon's  last  thoughts  as  he  left  the  room.  It 
was  with  great  difficulty,  so  dense  was  the  crowd,  that  the 
judge  drove  up  to  the  court.  As  the  carriage  slowly  passed, 
the  spectators  pressed  to  the  windows  of  the  vehicle,  and  stood 
on  tiptoe  to  catch  a  view  of  the  celebrated  lawyer.  Brandon's 
face,  never  long  indicative  of  his  feelings,  had  now  settled  into 
its  usual  gravity,  and  the  severe  loftiness  of  his  look  chilled, 
while  it  satisfied,  the  curiosity  of  the  vulgar.  It  had  been 
ordered  that  no  person  should  be  admitted  until  the  judge  had 
taken  his  seat  on  the  bench ;  and  this  order  occasioned  so 
much  delay,  owing  to  the  accumulated  pressure  of  the  vast  and 
miscellaneous  group,  that  it  was  more  than  half  an  hour  before 
the  court  was  able  to  obtain  that  decent  order  suiting  the 
solemnity  of  the  occasion.  At  five  minutes  before  ten,  an  uni- 
versal and  indescribable  movement  announced  that  the  prisoner 
was  put  to  the  bar.  We  read  in  one  of  the  journals  of  that 
day,  that  "on  being  put  to  the  bar.  the  prisoner  looked  round 
with  a  long  and  anxious  gaze,  which  at  length  settled  on  the 
judge,  and  then  dropped,  while  the  prisoner  was  observed  to 
change  countenance  slightly.  Lovett  was  dressed  in  a  plain 
dark  suit ;  he  seemed  to  be  about  six  feet  high ;  and  though 
thin  and  worn,  probably  from  the  effect  of  his  wound  and  im- 
prisonment, he  is  remarkably  well  made,  and  exhibits  the  out- 
ward appearance  of  that  great  personal  strength  which  he  is 
said  to  possess,  and  which  is  not  unfrequently  the  chacteristic 
of  daring  criminals.  His  face  is  handsome  and  prepossessing, 
his  eyes  and  hair  dark,  and  his  complexion  pale,  possibly 
from  the  effects  of  his  confinement ;  there  was  a  certain  stern- 
ness in  his  countenance  during  the  greater  part  of  the  trial. 
His  behavior  was  remarkably  collected  and  composed.  The 
prisoner  listened  with  the  greatest  attention  to  the  indictment, 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  377 

which  the  reader  will  find  in  another  part  of  our  paper,  charg- 
ing him  with  the  highway  robbery  of  Lord  Mauleverer,  on  the 

night  of  the of last.     He  occasionally  inclined   his 

body  forward,  and  turned  his  ear  towards  the  court ;  and  he 
was  observed,  as  the  jury  were  sworn,  to  look  steadily  in  the 
face  of  each.  He  breathed  thick  and  hard  when  the  various 
aliases  he  had  assumed,  Howard,  Cavendish,  Jackson,  etc., 
were  read;  but  smiled,  with  an  unaccountable  expression, 
when  the  list  was  completed,  as  if  exulting  at  the  varieties  of 
his  ingenuity.  At  twenty-five  minutes  past  ten,  Mr.  Dyebright, 
the  counsel  for  the  crown,  stated  the  case  to  the  jury." 

Mr.  Dyebright  was  a  lawyer  of  great  eminence;  he  had  been 
a  Whig  all  his  life  but  had  latterly  become  remarkable  for  his 
insincerity,  and  subservience  to  the  wishes  of  the  higher  powers. 
His  talents  were  peculiar  and  effective.  If  he  had  little  elo- 
qence  he  had  much  power ;  and  his  legal  knowledge  was  sound 
and  extensive.  Many  of  his  brethren  excelled  him  in  display ; 
but  no  one,  like  him,  possessed  the  secret  of  addressing  a  jury. 
Winningly  familiar;  seemingly  candid  to  a  degree  that  scarcely 
did  justice  to  his  cause,  as  if  he  were  in  an  agony  lest  he  should 
persuade  you  to  lean  a  hair-breadth  more  on  his  side  of  the 
case  than  justice  would  allow ;  apparently  all  made  up  of  good, 
homely,  virtuous  feeling,  a  disinterested  regard  for  truth,  a 
blunt  yet  tender  honesty,  seasoned,  with  a  few  amiable  fire- 
side prejudices,  which  always  come  home  to  the  hearts  of  your 
fathers  of  families  and  thoroughbred  Britons ;  versed  in  all  the 
niceties  of  language,  and  the  magic  of  names ;  if  he  were  de- 
fending crime,  carefully  calling  it  misfortune ;  if  attacking  mis- 
fortune, constantly  calling  it  crime ;  Mr.  Dyebright  was  ex- 
actly the  man  born  to  pervert  justice,  to  tickle  jurors,  to  cozen 
truth  with  a  friendly  smile,  and  to  obtain  a  vast  reputation  as 
an  excellent  advocate.  He  began  by  a  long  preliminary  flour- 
ish on  the  importance  of  the  case.  He  said  that  he  should, 
with  the  most  scrupulous  delicacy,  avoid  every  remark  calcu- 
lated to  raise  unnecessary  prejudice  against  the  prisoner.  He 
should  not  allude  to  his  unhappy  notoriety,  his  associations 
with  the  lowest  dregs. — (Here  up  jumped  the  counsel  for  the 
prisoner,  and  Mr.  Dyebright  was  called  to  order.)  "God 
knows,"  resumed  the  learned  gentleman,  looking  wistfully  at 
the  jury,  "that  my  learned  friend  might  have  spared  himself 
this  warning.  God  knows  that  I  would  rather  fifty  of  the 
wretched  inmates  of  this  county  gaol  were  to  escape  unharmed, 
than  that  a  hair  of  the  prisoner  you  behold  at  the  bar  should 
be  unjustly  touched.  The  life  of  a  human  being  is  at  stake ;  we 


PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

should  be  guilty  ourselves  of  a  crime,  which  on  our  death-beds 
we  should  tremble  to  recall,  were  we  to  suffer  any  consideration, 
whether  of  interest  or  of  prejudice,  or  of  undue  fear  for  our 
own  properties  and  lives,  to  bias  us  even  to  the  turning  of 
a  straw  against  the  unfortunate  prisoner.  Gentlemen,  if  you 
find  me  travelling  a  single  inch  from  my  case — if  you  find  me 
saying  a  single  word  calculated  to  harm  the  prisoner  in  your 
eyes,  and  unsupported  by  the  evidence  I  shall  call,  then  I  im- 
plore you  not  to  depend  upon  the  vigilance  of  my  learned 
friend,  but  to  treasure  these  my  errors  in  your  recollection,  and 
to  consider  them  as  so  many  arguments  in  favor  of  the  prisoner. 
If,  gentlemen,  I  could,  by  any  possibility,  imagine  that  your 
verdict  would  be  favorable  to  the  prisoner,  I  can,  unaffectedly 
and  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  declare  to  you  that  I  should 
rejoice ;  a  case  might  be  lost,  but  a  fellow-creature  would  be 
saved!  Callous  as  we  of  the  legal  profession  are  believed,  we 
have  feelings  like  you ;  and  I  ask  any  one  of  you,  gentlemen 
of  the  jury,  any  one  who  has  ever  felt  the  pleasures  of  social 
intercourse,  the  joy  of  charity,  the  heart's  reward  of  benevo- 
lence,— I  ask  any  one  of  you,  whether,  if  he  were  placed  in  the 
arduous  situation  I  now  hold,  all  the  persuasions  of  vanity 
would  not  vanish  at  once  from  his  mind,  and  whether  his  de- 
feat as  an  advocate  would  not  be  rendered  dear  to  him,  by  the 
common  and  fleshly  sympathies  of  a  man !  But,  gentlemen 
(Mr.  Dyebright's  voice  at  once  deepened  and  faltered),  there 
is  a  duty,  a  painful  duty,  we  owe  to  our  country ;  and  never, 
in  the  long  course  of  my  professional  experience,  do  I'  remem- 
ber an  instance  in  which  it  was  more  called  forth  than  the 
present.  Mercy,  gentlemen,  is  dear,  very  dear  to  us  all ;  but 
it  is  the  deadliest  injury  we  can  inflict  on  mankind,  when  it  is 
bought  at  the  expense  of  justice." 

The  learned  gentleman  then,  after  a  few  farther  prefatory  ob- 
servations, proceeded  to  state  how,on  the  night  of  — ^ —  last,  Lord 
Mauleverer  was  stopped  and  robbed  by  three  men,  masked,  of 
a  sum  of  money  amounting  to  above  three  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  a  diamond  snuff-box,  rings,  watch,  and  a  case  of  most 
valuable  jewels, — how  Lord  Mauleverer,  in  endeavoring  to 
defend  himself,  had  passed  a  bullet  through  the  clothes  of  one 
of  the  robbers — how,  it  would  be  proved,  that  the  garments  of 
the  prisoner,  found  in  a  cave  in  Oxfordshire,  and  positively 
sworn  to  by  a  witness  he  should  produce,  exhibited  a  rent  sim- 
ilar to  such  a  one  as  a  bullet  would  produce, — how,  moreover, 
it  would  be  positively  sworn  to  by  the  same  witness,  that  the 
prisoner  Lovett  had  come  to  the  cavern  with  two  accomplices, 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  379 

not  yet  taken  up,  since  their  rescue  by  the  prisoner,  and 
boasted  of  the  robbery  he  had  just  committed ;  that  in  the 
clothes  and  sleeping  apartment  of  the  robber  the  articles  stolen 
from  Lord  Mauleverer  were  found,  and  that  the  purse  contain- 
ing the  notes  for  three  hundred  pounds,  the  only  thing  the 
prisoner  could  probably  have  obtained  time  to  carry  off  with 
him,  on  the  morning  in  which  the  cave  was  entered  by  the 
policemen,  was  found  on  his  person  on  the  day  on  which  he 
had  attempted  the  rescue  of  his  comrades,  and  had  been  appre- 
hended in  that  attempt.  He  stated,  moreover,  that  the  dress 
found  in  the  cavern,  and  sworn  toby  one  witness  he  could 
produce,  as  belonging  to  the  prisoner,  answered  exactly  to 
the  description  of  the  clothes  worn  by  the  principal  robber, 
and  sworn  to  by  Lord  Mauleverer,  his  servant,  and  the  postil- 
ions. In  like  manner,  the  color  of  one  of  the  horses  found  in 
the  cavern  corresponded  with  that  rode  by  the  highwayman. 
On  these  circumstantial  proofs,  aided  by  the  immediate  testi- 
mony  of  the  king's  evidence  (that  witness  whom  he  should  pro- 
duce), he  rested  a  case  which  could,  he  averred,  leave  no  doubt 
on  the  minds  of  any  impartial  jury.  Such,  briefly  and  plainly 
alleged,  made  the  substance  of  the  details  entered  into  by  the 
learned  counsel,  who  then  proceeded  to  call  his  witnesses. 
The  evidence  of  Lord  Mauleverer  (who  was  staying  at  Maulev- 
erer Park,  which  was  within  a  few  miles  of  — —  )  was  short 
and  clear  (it  was  noticed  as  a  singular  circumstance,  that  at 
the  end  of  the  evidence  the  prisoner  bowed  respectfully  to  his 
lordship).  The  witness  of  the  postilions  and  of  the  valet  was 
no  less  concise;  nor  could  all  the  ingenuity  of  Clifford's  coun- 
sel shake  any  part  of  their  evidence  in  his  cross-examination. 
The  main  witness  depended  on  by  the  crown  was  now  sum- 
moned, and  the  solemn  countenance  of  Peter  Mac  Crawler 
rose  on  the  eyes  of  the  jury.  One  look  of  cold  and  blighting 
contempt  fell  on  him  from  tne  eye  of  the  prisoner,  who  did  not 
again  deign  to  regard  him  during  the  whole  of  his  examination. 

The  witness  of  Mac  Crawler  was  delivered  with  a  pomposity 
worthy  of  the  ex-editor  of  "the  Asinseum."  Nevertheless,  by 
the  skill  of  Mr.  Dyebright,  it  was  rendered  sufficiently  clear  a 
story  to  leave  an  impression  on  the  jury  damnatory  to  the  in- 
terests of  the  prisoner.  The  counsel  on  the  opposite  side  was 
not  slow  in  perceiving  the  ground  acquired  by  the  adverse 
party ;  so,  clearing  his  throat,  he  rose  with  a  sneering  air  to 
the  cross-examination. 

"So,  so!"  began  Mr.  Botheram,  putting  on  a  pair  of  re- 
markably large  spectacles,  wherewith  he  truculently  regarded 


380  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

the  witness, — "so,  so,  Mr.  Mac  Grawler, — is  that  your  name? 
eh?  Ah,  it  is,  is  it?  A  very,  very  respectable  name  it  is  too,  I 
warrant.  Well,  sir,  look  at  me.  Now,  on  your  oath,  remem- 
ber, were  you  ever  the  editor  of  a  certain  thing  published  every 
Wednesday,  and  called  'the  Attenseum,'  or  'the  Asinaeum',  or 
some  such  name?" 

Commencing  with  this  insidious  and  self-damnatory  question, 
the  learned  counsel  then  proceeded,  as  artfully  as  he  was  able, 
through  a  series  of  interrogatories,  calculated  to  injure  the 
character,  the  respectable  character,  of  Mac  Grawler,  and 
weaken  his  testimony  in  the  eyes  of  the  jury.  He  succeeded 
in  exciting  in  the  audience  that  feeling  of  merriment  wherewith 
the  vulgar  are  always  so  delighted  to  intersperse  the  dull  seri- 
ousness of  hanging  a  human  being.  But  though  the  jury  them- 
selves grinned,  they  were  not  convinced.  The  Scotsman  re- 
tired from  the  witness-box,  "scotched,"  perhaps,  in  reputation, 
but  not  "killed"  as  to  testimony.  It  was  just  before  this  wit- 
ness concluded,  that  Lord  Mauleverer  caused  to  be  handed  to 
the  judge  a  small  slip  of  paper,  containing  merely  these  words 
in  pencil : 

' '  DEAR  BRANDON  : — A  dinner  waits  you  at  Mauleverer  Park, 

only   three  miles  hence.     Lord and   the  Bishop  of 

meet  you.  Plenty  of  news  from  London,  and  a  letter  about 
you,  which  I  will  show  to  no  one  till  we  meet.  Make  haste 
and  hang  this  poor  fellow,  that  I  may  see  you  the  sooner ;  and 
it  is  bad  for  both  of  us  to  wait  long  for  a  regular  meal  like 
dinner.  I  can't  stay  longer,  it  is  so  hot,  and  my  nerves  were 
always  susceptible. 

"Yours, 

'MAULEVERER. 

"If  you  will  come,  give  me  a  nod.  You  know  my  hour — it 
is  always  the  same." 

The  judge  glancing  over  the  note,  inclined  his  head  gravely 
to  the  Earl,  who  withdrew;  and  one  minute  afterwards,  a 
heavy  and  breathless  silence  fell  over  the  whole  court.  The 
prisoner  was  called  upon  for  his  defence ;  it  was  singular  what 
a  different  sensation  to  that  existing  in  their  breasts  the  mo- 
ment before,  crept  thrillingly  through  the  audience.  Hushed 
was  every  whisper — vanished  was  every  smile  that  the  late 
cross-examination  had  excited ;  a  sudden  and  chilling  sense  of 
the  dread  importance  of  the  tribunal  made  itself  abruptly  felt 
in  the  minds  of  every  one  present. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  381 

Perhaps,  as  in  the  gloomy  satire  of  Hogarth  (the  moral 
Mephistopheles  of  painters),  the  close  neighborhood  of  pain  to 
mirth  made  the  former  come  with  the  homelier  shock  to  the 
heart;  be  that  as  it  may,  a  freezing  anxiety  numbing  the 
pulse,  and  stirring  through  the  air,  made  every  man  in  that 
various  crowd  feel  a  sympathy  of  awe  with  his  neighbor,  ex- 
cepting only  the  hardened  judge  and  the  hackneyed  lawyers, 
and  one  spectator,  an  idiot  who  had  thrust  himself  in  with  the 
general  press,  and  stood,  within  a  few  paces  of  the  prisoner, 
grinning  unconsciously,  and  every  now  and  then  winking  with 
a  glassy  eye  at  some  one  at  a  distance,  whose  vigilance  he  had 
probably  eluded. 

The  face  and  aspect,  even  the  attitude  of  the  prisoner,  were 
well  fitted  to  heighten  .the  effect  which  would  naturally  have 
been  created  by  any  man  under  the  same  fearful  doom.  He 
stood  at  the  very  front  of  the  bar,  and  his  tall  and  noble  figure 
was  drawn  up  to  its  full  height;  a  glow  of  excitement  spread 
itself  gradually  over  features  at  all  times  striking,  and  lighted 
an  eye  naturally  eloquent,  and  to  which  various  emotions  at 
that  time  gave  a  more  than  commonly  deep  and  impressive 
expression.  He  began  thus: 

"My  lord,  I  have  little  to  say,  and  I  may  at  once  relieve  the 
anxiety  of  my  counsel,  who  now  looks  wistfully  upon  me,  and 
add,  that  that  little  will  scarcely  embrace  the  object  of  de- 
fence. Why  should  I  defend  myself?  Why  should  I  endeavor 
to  protract  a  life  that  a  few  days,  more  or  less,  will  terminate, 
according  to  the  ordinary  calculations  of  chance?  Such  as  it 
is,  and  has  been,  my  life  is  vowed  to  the  law,  and  the  law  will 
have  the  offering.  Could  I  escape  from  this  indictmeht,  I 
know  that  seven  others  await  me,  and  that  by  one  or  the  other 
of  these  my  conviction  and  my  sentence  must  come.  Life 
may  be  sweet  to  all  of  us,  my  lord ;  and  were  it  possible  that 
mine  could  be  spared  yet  a  while,  that  continued  life  might 
make  a  better  atonement  for  past  actions,  than  a  death  which, 
abrupt  and  premature,  calls  for  repentance  while  it  forbids 
redress. 

"But,  when  the  dark  side  of  things  is  our  only  choice,  it  is 
useless  to  regard  the  bright ;  idle  to  fix  our  eyes  upon  life, 
when  death  is  at  hand ;  useless  to  speak  of  contrition,  when  we 
are  denied  its  proof.  It  is  the  usual  policy  of  prisoners  in  my 
situation  to  address  the  feelings  and  flatter  the  prejudices  of 
the  jury;  to  descant  on  the  excellence  of  our  laws,  while  they 
endeavor  to  disarm  them ;  to  praise  justice,  yet  demand  mercy ; 
to  talk  of  expecting  acquittal,  yet  boast  of  submitting  without  a 


382  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

murmur  to  condemnation.  For  me,  to  whom  all  earthly  inter- 
ests are  dead,  this  policy  is  idle  and  superfluous.  I  hesitate  not 
to  tell  you,  my  lord  judge — to  proclaim  to  you,  gentlemen  of 
the  jury,  that  the  laws  which  I  have  broken  through  my  life  I 
despise  in  death !  Your  laws  are  but  of  two  classes ;  the  one 
makes  criminals,  the  other  punishes  them.  I  have  suffered  by 
the  one — I  am  about  to  perish  by  the  other. 

"My  lord,  it  was  the  turn  of  a  straw  which  made  me  what  I 
am.  Seven  years  ago  I  was  sent  to  the  house  of  correction 
for  an  offence  which  I  did  not  commit;  I  went  thither,  a  boy 
who  had  never  infringed  a  single  law — I  came  forth,  in  a  few 
weeks,  a  man  who  was  prepared  to  break  all  laws!  Whence 
was  this  change? — was  it  my  fault,  or  that  of  my  condemners? 
You  had  first  wronged  me  by  a  punishment  which  I  did  not  de- 
serve— you  wronged  me  yet  more  deeply,  when  (even  had  I 
been  guilty  of  the  first  offence)  I  was  sentenced  to  herd  with 
hardened  offenders,  and  graduates  in  vice  and  vice's  methods 
of  support.  The  laws  themselves  caused  me  to  break  the  laws : 
first,  by  implanting  within  me  the  goading  sense  of  injustice; 
secondly,  by  submitting  me  to  the  corruption  of  example. 
Thus,  I  repeat — and  I  trust  my  words  will  sink  solemnly  into 
the  hearts  of  all  present — your  legislation  made  me  what  I  am ! 
and  it  now  destroys  me,  as  it  has  destroyed  thousands  for  being 
what  it  made  me!  But  for  this  the  first  aggression  on  me,  I 
might  have  been  what  the  world  terms  honest, —  I  might  have 
advanced  to  old  age,  and  a  peaceful  grave,  through  the  harm- 
less cheateries  of  trade,  or  the  honored  falsehoods  of  a  profes- 
sion. Nay,  I  might  have  supported  the  laws  which  I  have  now 
braved ;  like  the  counsel  opposed  to  me,  I  might  have  grown 
sleek  on  the  vices  of  others,  and  advanced  to  honor  by  my  in- 
genuity in  hanging  my  fellow-creatures!  The  canting  and 
pre-judging  part  of  the  press  has  affected  to  set  before  you  the 
merits  of  'honest  ability,'  or  'laborious  trade,'  in  opposition  to 
my  offences.  What,  I  beseech  you,  are  the  props  of  your 
'honest'  exertion — the  profits  of  'trade'?  Are  there  no  bribes 
to  menials?  Is  there  no  adulteration  of  goods?  Are  the  rich 
never  duped  in  the  price  they  pay? — are  the  poor  never 
wronged  in  the  quality  they  receive?  Is  there  honesty  in  the 
bread  you  eat,  in  a  single  necessity  which  clothes,  or  feeds,  or 
warms  you?  Let  those  whom  the  law  protects  consider  it  a 
protector:  when  did  it  ever  protect  me?  When  did  it  ever 
protect  the  poor  man?  The  government  of  a  state,  the  insti- 
tutions of  law,  profess  to  provide  for  all  those  who  'obey.' 
Mark!  a  man  hungers — do  you  feed  him?  He  is  naked — do 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  383 

you  clothe  him?  If  not,  you  break  your  covenant,  you  drive 
him  back  to  the  first  law  of  nature,  and  you  hang  him,  not  be- 
cause he  is  guilty,  but  because  you  have  left  him  naked  and 
starving!  (A  murmur  among  the  mob  below,  with  great  diffi- 
culty silenced.)  One  thing  only  I  will  add,  and  that  not  to 
move  your  mercy.  No,  nor  to  invest  my  fate  with  an  idle  and 
momentary  interest ;  but  because  there  are  some  persons  in 
this  world  who  have  not  known  me  as  the  criminal  who  stands 
before  you,  and  whom  the  tidings  of  my  fate  may  hereafter 
reach ;  and  I  would  not  have  those  persons  view  me  in  blacker 
colors  than  I  deserve.  Among  all  the  rumors,  gentlemen,  that 
have  reached  you,  through  all  the  tales  and  fables  kindled  from 
my  unhappy  notoriety  and  my  approaching  doom,  I  put  it  to 
you,  if  you  have  heard  that  I  have  committed  one  sanguinary 
action,  or  one  ruinous  and  deliberate  fraud?  You  have  heard 
that  I  have  lived  by  the  plunder  of  the  rich — I  do  not  deny  the 
charge.  From  the  grinding  of  the  poor,  the  habitual  over- 
reaching, or  the  systematic  pilfering  of  my  neighbors,  my  con- 
science is  as  free  as  it  is  from  the  charge  of  cruelty  and  blood- 
shed. Those  errors  I  leave  to  honest  mediocrity  or  virtuous 
exertion!  You  may  perhaps  find,  too,  that  my  life  has  not 
passed  through  a  career  of  outrage  without  scattering  some  few 
benefits  on  the  road.  In  destroying  me,  it  is  true  that  you  will 
have  the  consolation  to  think,  that  among  the  benefits  you  de- 
rive from  my  sentence  will  be  the  salutary  encouragement  you 
give  to  other  offenders  to  offend  to  the  last  degree,  and  to 
divest  outrage  of  no  single  aggravation !  But  if  this  does  not 
seem  to  you  any  very  powerful  inducement,  you  may  pause 
before  you  cut  off  from  all  amendment  a  man  who  seems 
neither  wholly  hardened  nor  utterly  beyond  atonement.  My 
lord,  my  counsel  would  have  wished  to  summon  witnesses, — 
some  to  bear  testimony  to  redeeming  points  in  my  own  charac- 
ter, others  to  invalidate  the  oath  of  the  witness  against  me — a 
man  whom  I  saved  from  destruction  in  order  that  he  might 
destroy  me.  I  do  not  think  either  necessary.  The  public 
press  has  already  said  of  me  what  little  good  does  not  shock 
the  truth ;  and  had  I  not  possessed  something  of  those  quali- 
ties which  society  does  not  dis-esteem,  you  would  not  have 
beheld  me  here  at  this  hour!  If  I  had  saved  myself  as  well  as 
my  companions,  I  should  have  left  this  country,  perhaps  for- 
ever, and  commenced  a  very  different  career  abroad.  I  com- 
mitted offences ;  I  eluded  you  ;  I  committed  what,  in  my  case, 
was  an  act  of  duty:  I  am  seized,  and  I  perish.  But  the  weak- 
ness of  my  body  destroys  me,  not  the  strength  of  your  malice. 


384  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

Had  I  (and  as  the  prisoner  spake,  the  haughty  and  rapid  mo- 
tion, the  enlarging  of  the  form,  produced  by  the  passion  of  the 
moment,  made  impressively  conspicuous  to  all  the  remarkable 
power  of  his  frame), — had  I  but  my  wonted  health,  my  wonted 
command  over  these  limbs  and  these  veins,  I  would  have 
asked  no  friend,  no  ally,  to  favor  my  escape.  I  tell  you,  en- 
gines and  guardians  of  the  law,  that  I  would  have  mocked  your 
chains,  and  defied  your  walls,  as  ye  know  that  I  have  mocked 
and  defied  them  before.  But  my  blood  creeps  now  only  in 
drops  through  its  courses ;  and  the  heart  that  I  had  of  old  stirs 
feebly  and  heavily  within  me."  The  prisoner  paused  a  mo- 
ment, and  resumed  in  an  altered  tone:  "Leaving,  then,  my 
own  character  to  the  ordeal  of  report,  I  cannot  perhaps  do 
better  than  leave  to  the  same  criterion  that  of  the  witness 
against  me.  I  will  candidly  own  that,  under  other  circum- 
stances, it  might  have  been  otherwise.  I  will  candidly  avow 
that  I  might  have  then  used  such  means  as  your  law  awards 
me  to  procure  an  acquittal  and  to  prolong  my  existence, — 
though  in  a  new  scene;  as  it  is,  what  matters  the  cause  in 
which  I  receive  my  sentence?  Nay,  it  is  even  better  to  suffer 
by  the  first  than  to  linger  to  the  last.  It  is  some  consolation 
not  again  to  stand  where  I  now  stand;  to  go  through  the 
humbling  solemnities  which  I  have  this  day  endured ;  to  see  the 
smile  of  some,  and  retort  the  frown  of  others ;  to  wrestle  with 
the  anxiety  of  the  heart,  and  to  depend  on  the  caprice  of  the 
excited  nerves.  It  is  something  to  feel  one  part  of  the  drama 
of  disgrace  is  over,  and  that  I  may  wait  unmolested  in  my  den 
until,  for  one  time  only,  I  am  again  the  butt  of  the  unthinking 
and  the  monster  of  the  crowd.  My  lord,  I  have  now  done! 
To  you,  whom  the  law  deems  the  prisoner's  counsel, — to  you, 
gentlemen  of  the  jury,  to  whom  it  has  delegated  his  fate,  I 
leave  the  chances  of  my  life." 

The  prisoner  ceased;  but  the  same  heavy  silence  which, 
save  when  broken  by  one  solitary  murmur,  had  lain  over  the 
court  during  his  speech,  still  continued  even  for  several  moments 
after  that  deep  and  firm  voice  had  died  on  the  ear.  So  differ- 
ent had  been  the  defence  of  the  prisoner  from  that  which  had 
been  expected ;  so  assuredly  did  the  more  hackneyed  part  of 
the  audience,  even  as  he  had  proceeded,  imagine  that,  by  some 
artful  turn,  he  would  at  length  wind  into  the  usual  courses  of 
defence,  that  when  his  unfaltering  and  almost  stern  accents 
paused,  men  were  not  prepared  to  feel  that  his  speech  was  fin- 
ished, and  the  pause  involuntarily  jarred  on  them,  as  untime- 
ous  and  abrupt.  At  length,  when  each  of  the  audience  slowly 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  385 

awoke  to  the  conviction  that  the  prisoner  had  indeed  concluded 
his  harangue,  a  movement,  eloquent  of  feelings  released  from 
a  suspense  which  had  been  perhaps  the  more  earnest  and  the 
more  blended  with  awe,  from  the  boldness  and  novelty  of  the 
words  on  which  it  hung,  circled  round  the  court.  The  jurors 
looked  confusedly  at  each  other,  but  not  one  of  them  spoke 
even  by  a  whisper ;  their  feelings,  which  had  been  aroused  by 
the  speech  of  the  prisoner,  had  not,  from  its  shortness,  its  sin- 
gularity, and  the  haughty  impolicy  of  its  tone,  been  so  far 
guided  by  its  course,  as  to  settle  into  any  state  of  mind  clearly 
favorable  to  him,  or  the  reverse ;  so  that  each  man  waited  for 
his  neighbor  to  speak  first,  in  order  that  he  might  find,  as  it 
were,  in  another,  a  kind  of  clew  to  the  indistinct  and  excited 
feelings  which  wanted  utterance  in  himself. 

The  judge,  who  had  been  from  the  first  attracted  by  the  air 
and  aspect  of  the  prisoner,  had  perhaps,  notwithstanding  the 
hardness  of  his  mind,  more  approvingly  than  any  one  present, 
listened  to  the  defence ;  for  in  the  scorn  of  the  hollow  institu- 
tions and  the  mock  honesty  of  social  life,  so  defyingly  mani- 
fested by  the  prisoner,  Brandon  recognized  elements  of  mind 
remarkably  congenial  to  his  own ;  and  this  sympathy  was 
heightened  by  the  hardihood  of  physical  nerve  and  moral  in- 
trepidity displayed  by  the  prisoner;  qualities  which,  among 
men  of  a  similar  mould,  often  form  the  strongest  motive  of  es- 
teem, and  sometimes  (as  we  read  in  the  Imperial  Corsican  and 
his  chiefs)  the  only  point  of  attraction !  Brandon  was,  how- 
ever, soon  recalled  to  his  cold  self  by  a  murmur  of  vague  ap- 
plause circling  throughout  the  common  crowd,  among  whom 
the  general  impulse  always  manifests  itself  first,  and  to  whom 
the  opinions  of  the  prisoner,  though  but  imperfectly  under- 
stood, came  more  immediately  home  than  they  did  to  the  better 
and  richer  classes  of  the  audience.  Ever  alive  to  the  decor- 
ums of  form,  Brandon  instantly  ordered  silence  in  the  court ; 
and  when  it  was  again  restored,  and  it  was  fully  understood 
that  the  prisoner's  defence  had  closed,  the  judge  proceeded  to 
sum  up. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  many  of  the  qualities  of  mind 
which  seem  most  unamiable  in  priva  e  life  often  conduce  with 
a  singular  felicity  to  the  ends  of  public ;  and  thus  the  stony 
firmness  characteristic  of  Brandon  was  a  main  cause  which 
made  him  admirable  as  a  judge.  For  men  in  office  err  no  less 
from  their  feelings  than  their  interest. 

Glancing  over  his  notes,  the  judge  inclined  himself  to  the 
jury,  and  began  with  that  silver  ringing  voice  which  partic- 


386  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

ularly  distinguished  Brandon's  eloquence,  and  carries  with  it 
in  high  stations  so  majestic  and  candid  a  tone  of  persuasion. 
He  pointed  out,  with  a  clear  brevity,  the  various  points  of  the 
evidence ;  he  dwelt  for  a  moment  on  the  attempt  to  cast  disre- 
pute upon  the  testimony  of  Mac  Grawler — but  called  a  proper 
attention  to  the  fact,  that  the  attempt  had  been  unsupported  by 
witnesses  or  proof.  As  he  proceeded,  the  impression  made  by 
the  prisoner  on  the  minds  of  the  jury  slowly  melted  away;  and 
perhaps,  so  much  do  men  soften  when  they  behold  clearly  the 
face  of  a  fellow-man  dependent  on  them  for  life,  it  acted  dis- 
advantageously  on  the  interests  of  Clifford,  that,  during  the 
summing  up,  he  leant  back  in  the  dock,  and  prevented  his 
countenance  from  being  seen.  When  the  evidence  had  been 
gone  through,  the  judge  concluded  thus: 

"The  prisoner,  who,  in  his  defence  (on  the  principles  and 
opinions  of  which  I  now  forbear  to  comment),  certainly  exhib- 
ited the  signs  of  a  superior  education,  and  a  high  though  per- 
verted ability,  has  alluded  to  the  reports  circulated  by  the  pub- 
lic press,  and  leant  some  little  stress  on  the  various  anecdotes 
tending  to  his  advantage,  which  he  supposes  have  reached  your 
ears.  I  am  by  no  means  willing  that  the  prisoner  should  be 
deprived  of  whatever  benefit  may  be  derivable  from  such  a 
source;  but  it  is  not  in  this  place,  nor  at  this  moment,  that  it 
can  avail  him.  All  you  have  to  consider  is  the  evidence  before 
you.  All  on  which  you  have  to  decide  is,  whether  the  prisoner 
be  or  be  not  guilty  of  the  robbery  of  which  he  is  charged. 
You  must  not  waste  a  thought  on  what  redeems  or  heightens  a 
supposed  crime — you  must  only  decide  on  the  crime  itself. 
Put  away  from  your  minds,  I  beseech  you,  all  that  interferes 
with  the  main  case.  Put  away  also  from  your  motives  of  de- 
cision all  forethought  of  other  possible  indictments  to  which 
the  prisoner  has  alluded,  but  with  which  you  are  necessarily 
unacquainted.  If  you  doubt  the  evidence,  whether  of  one 
witness  or  of  all,  the  prisoner  must  receive  from  you  the  bene- 
fit of  that  doubt.  If  not,  you  are  sworn  to  a  solemn  oath, 
which  ordains  you  to  forego  all  minor  considerations — which 
compels  you  to  watch  narrowly  that  you  be  not  influenced  by 
the  infirmities  natural  to  us  all,  but  criminal  in  you,  to  lean 
towards  the  side  of  a  mercy  that  would  be  rendered  by  your 
oath  a  perjury  to  God,  and  by  your  duty  as  impartial  citizens,  a 
treason  to  your  country.  I  dismiss  you  to  the  grave  consider- 
ation of  the  important  case  you  have  heard;  and  I  trust  that 
He  to  whom  all  hearts  are  open  and  all  secrets  are  known,  will 
grant  you  the  temper  and  the  judgment  to  form  a  right  decision ! " 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  387 

There  was  in  the  majestic  aspect  and  thrilling  voice  of  Bran- 
don something  which  made  the  commonest  form  of  words 
solemn  and  impressive ;  and  the  hypocrite,  aware  of  this  felic- 
ity of  manner,  generally,  as  now,  added  weight  to  his  conclud- 
ing words  by  a  religious  allusion  or  a  Scriptural  phraseology. 
He  ceased ;  and  the  jury,  recovering  the  effect  of  his  adjura- 
tion, consulted  for  a  moment  among  themselves;  the  foreman 
then,  addressing  the  court  on  behalf  of  his  fellow-jurors,  re- 
quested leave  to  retire  for  deliberation.  An  attendant  bailiff 
being  sworn  in,  we  read  in  the  journals  of  the  day,  which  noted 
the  divisions  of  time  with  that  customary  scrupulosity  rendered 
terrible  by  the  reflection  how  soon  all  time  and  seasons  may 
perish  for  the  hero  of  the  scene,  that  "it  was  at  twenty-five 
minutes  to  two  that  the  jury  withdrew. ' ' 

Perhaps  in  the  whole  course  of  a  criminal  trial  there  is  no 
period  more  awful  than  that  occupied  by  the  deliberation  of 
the  jury.  In  the  present  case,  the  prisoner,  as  if  acutely  sen- 
sible of  his  situation,  remained  in  the  rear  of  the  dock,  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  They  who  stood  near  him  observed, 
however,  that  his  breast  did  not  seem  to  swell  with  the  convul- 
sive motion  customary  to  persons  in  his  state,  and  that  not  even 
a  sigh  or  agitated  movement  escaped  him.  The  jury  had  been 
absent  about  twenty  minutes,  when  a  confused  noise  was  heard 
in  the  court.  The  face  of  the  judge  turned  in  commanding 
severity  towards  the  quarter,  whence  it  proceeded.  He  per- 
ceived a  man  of  a  coarse  garb  and  mean  appearance  endeavor- 
ing, rudely  and  violently,  to  push  his  way  through  the  crowd 
towards  the  bench,  and  at  the  same  instant  he  saw  one  of  the 
officers  of  the  court  approaching  the  disturber  of  its  tranquillity, 
with  no  friendly  intent.  The  man,  aware  of  the  purpose  of  the 
constable,  exclaimed  with  great  vehemence,  "I  vill  give  this  to 
my  lord  the  judge,  blow  me  if  I  von't!"  and  as  he  spoke,  he 
raised  high  above  his  head  a  soiled  scrap  of  paper  folded  awk- 
wardly in  the  shape  of  a  letter.  The  instant  Brandon's  eye 
caught  the  rugged  features  of  the  intrusive  stranger,  he  mo- 
tioned with  rather  less  than  his  usual  slowness  of  gesture  to  one 
of  his  official  satellites.  "Bring  me  that  paper  instantly!"  he 
whispered. 

The  officer  bowed  and  obeyed.  The  man,  who  seemed  a 
little  intoxicated,  gave  it  with  a  look  of  ludicrous  triumph  and 
self-importance. 

"Stand  avay,  man!"  he  added  to  the  constable,  who  now 
laid  hand  on  his  collar — "you'll  see  vot  the  judge  says  to  that 
'ere  bit  of  paper;  and  so  vill  the  prisoner,  poor  fellow!" 


388  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

This  scene,  so  unworthy  the  dignity  of  the  court,  attracted 
the  notice  and  (immediately  around  the  intruder)  the  merri- 
ment of  the  crowd,  and  many  an  eye  was  directed  towards 
Brandon,  as  with  calm  gravity  he  opened  the  note  and  glanced 
over  the  contents.  In  a  large  school-boy' hand — it  was  the 
hand  of  Long  Ned — were  written  these  few  words : 

"Mv  LORD  JUDGE: 

"I  make  bold  to  beg  you  will  do  all  you  can  for  the  prisoner 
at  the  barre;  as  he  is  no  other  than  the  'Paul'  I  spoke  to  your 
Worship  about.  You  know  what  I  mean. 

"DUMMIE    DUNNAKER." 

As  he  read  this  note,  the  judge's  head  was  observed  to  droop 
suddenly,  as  if  by  a  sickness  or  a  spasm;  but  he  recovered 
himself  instantly,  and  whispering  the  officer  who  brought  him 
the  note,  said,  "See  that  that  madman  be  immediately  removed 
from  the  court,  and  lock  him  up  alone.  He  is  so  deranged  as 
to  be  dangerous!" 

The  officer  lost  not  a  moment  in  seeing  the  order  executed. 
Three  stout  constables  dragged  the  astounded  Dummie  from 
the  court  in  an  instant,  yet  the  more  ruthlessly  for  his  ejac- 
ulating: 

"Eh,  sirs,  what's  this?  I  tells  you  I  have  saved  the  judge's 
hown  flesh  and  blood.  Vy  now,  gently  there ;  you'll  smart  for 
this,  my  fine  fellow!  Never  you  mind,  Paul,  my  'arty:  I'se 
done  you  a  pure  good — " 

"Silence!"  proclaimed  the  voice  of  the  judge,  and  that 
voice  came  forth  with  so  commanding  a  tone  of  power  that  it 
awed  Dummie,  despite  his  intoxication.  In  a  moment  more, 
and,  ere  he  had  time  to  recover,  he  was  without  the  court. 
During  this  strange  hubbub,  which  nevertheless  scarcely  lasted 
above  two  or  three  minutes,  the  prisoner  had  not  once  lifted 
his  head,  nor  appeared  aroused  in  any  manner  from  his  revery. 
And  scarcely  had  the  intruder  been  withdrawn  before  the  jury 
returned. 

The  verdict  was  as  all  had  foreseen, — "Guilty"  ;  but  it  was 
coupled  with  a  strong  recommendation  to  mercy. 

The  prisoner  was  then  asked,  in  the  usual  form,  whether  he 
had  to  say  anything  why  sentence  of  death  should  not  be  passed 
against  him? 

As  these  dread  words  struck  upon  his  ear,  slowly  the  prison- 
er rose.  He  directed  first  towards  the  jury  a  brief  and  keen 
glance,  and  his  eyes  then  rested  full,  and  with  a  stern  signifi- 
cance, on  the  face  of  his  judge. 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  389 

" My  lord, "  he  began,  "I  have  but  one  reason  to  advance 
against  the  sentence  of  the  law.  If  you  have  interest  to  prevent 
or  mitigate  it,  that  reason  will,  I  think,  suffice  to  enlist  you  on 
my  behalf.  I  said  that  the  first  cause  of  those  offences  against 
the  law  which  bring  me  to  this  bar,  was  the  committing  me  to 
prison  on  a  charge  of  which  I  was  wholly  innocent !  My  lord 
judge,  you  were  the  man  who  accused  me  of  that  charge,  and 
subjected  me  to  that  imprisonment!  Look  at  me  well,  my 
lord,  and  you  may  trace  in  the  countenance  of  the  hardened 
felon  you  are  about  to  adjudge  to  death  the  features  of  a  boy 
whom,  some  seven  years  ago,  you  accused  before  a  London 
magistrate  of  the  theft  of  your-watch.  On  the  oath  of  a  man 
who  has  one  step  on  the  threshold  of  death,  the  accusation  was 
unjust.  And,  fit  minister  of  the  laws  you  represent!  you,  who 
will  now  pass  my  doom, — YOU  were  the  cause  of  my  crimes! 
My  lord,  I  have  done.  I  am  ready  to  add  another  to  the  long 
and  dark  list  of  victims  who  are  first  polluted,  and  then  sacri- 
ficed, by  the  blindness  and  the  injustice  of  human  codes!" 

While  Clifford  spoke,  every  eye  turned  from  him  to  the 
judge,  and  every  one  was  appalled  by  the  ghastly  and  fearful 
change  which  had  fallen  over  Brandon's  face.  Men  said  after- 
wards, that  they  saw  written  there,  in  terrible  distinctness,  the 
characters  of  death ;  and  there  certainly  seemed  something 
awful  and  preternatural  in  the  bloodless  and  haggard  calmness 
of  his  proud  features.  Yet  his  eye  did  not  quail,  nor  the 
muscles  of  his  lip  quiver;  and  with  even  more  than  his  wonted 
loftiness  he  met  the  regard  of  the  prisoner.  But,  as  alone 
conspicuous  throughout  the  motionless  and  breathless  crowd, 
the  judge  and  criminal  gazed  upon  each  other,  and  as  the  eyes 
of  the  spectators  wandered  on  each,  a  thrilling  and  electric 
impression  of  a  powerful  likeness  between  the  doomed  and  the 
doomer,  for  the  first  time  in  the  trial,  struck  upon  the  audience, 
and  increased  though  they  scarcely  knew  why,  the  sensation  of 
pain  and  dread  which  the  prisoner's  last  words  excited.  Per- 
haps it  might  have  chiefly  arisen  from  a  common  expression  of 
fierce  emotion  conquered  by  an  iron  and  stern  character  of 
mind,  or  perhaps,  now  that  the  ashy  paleness  of  exhaustion 
had  succeeded  the  excited  flush  on  the  prisoner's  face,  the 
similarity  of  complexion  thus  obtained  made  the  likeness  more 
obvious  than  before ;  or  perhaps,  the  spectators  had  not  hitherto 
fixed  so  searching,  or,  if  we  may  so  speak,  so  alternating  a  gaze 
upon  the  two.  However  that  be,  the  resemblance  between  the 
men,  placed  as  they  were  in  such  widely  different  circum- 
stances— that  resemblance  which,  as  we  have  hinted,  had  at 


39°  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

certain  moments  occurred  startlingly  to  Lucy — was  plain  and 
unavoidably  striking:  the  same  the  dark  hue  of  their  complexions; 
the  same  the  haughty  and  Roman  outline  of  their  faces ;  the 
same  the  height  of  the  forehead ;  the  same  even  a  displeasing  and 
sarcastic  rigidity  of  mouth,  which  made  the  most  conspicuous 
feature  in  Brandon,  and  which  was  the  only  point  that  deteri- 
orated from  the  singular  beauty  of  Clifford.  But,  above  all,  the 
same  inflexible,  defying,  stubborn  spirit,  though  in  Brandon  it 
assumed  the  stately  cast  of  majesty,  and  in  Clifford  it  seemed 
the  desperate  sternness  of  the  bravo,  stamped  itself  in  both. 
Though  Clifford  ceased,  he  did  not  resume  his  seat,  but  stood  in 
the  same  attitude  as  that  in  which  he  had  reversed  the  order  of 
things  and  merged  the  petitioner  in  the  accuser.  And  Bran- 
don himself,  without  speaking  or  moving,  continued  still  to  sur- 
vey him.  So,  with  erect  fronts,  and  marble  countenances,  in 
which  what  was  defying  and  resolute  did  not  altogether  quell 
the  mortal  leaven  of  pain  and  dread,  they  looked  as  might  have 
looked  the  two  men  in  the  Eastern  story,  who  had  the  power  of 
gazing  each  other  unto  death. 

What,  at  that  moment,  was  raging  in  Brandon's  heart,  it  is 
in  vain  to  guess.  He  doubted  not  for  a  moment,  that  he  be- 
held before  him  his  long-lost,  his  anxiously  demanded  son ! 
Every  fibre,  every  corner  of  his  complex  and  gloomy  soul,  that 
certainty  reached,  and  blasted  with  a  hideous  and  irresistible 
glare.  The  earliest,  perhaps  the  strongest,  though  often  the 
least  acknowledged  principle  of  his  mind,  was  the  desire  to  re- 
build the  fallen  honors  of  his  house;  its  last  scion  he  now  be- 
held before  him,  covered  with  the  darkest  ignominies  of  the 
law !  He  had  coveted  worldly  honors ;  he  beheld  their  legiti- 
mate successor  in  a  convicted  felon !  He  had  garnered  the  few 
affections  he  had  spared  from  the  objects  of  pride  and  ambi- 
tion, in  his  son.  That  son  he  was  about  to  adjudge  to  the  gib- 
bet and  the  hangman !  Of  late,  he  had  increased  the  hopes  of 
regaining  his  lost  treasure,  even  to  an  exultant  certainty.  Lo ! 
the  hopes  were  accomplished !  How?  With  these  thoughts 
warring,  in  that  manner  we  dare  not  even  by  an  epithet  ex- 
press, within  him,  we  may  cast  one  hasty  glance  on  the  horror 
of  aggravation  they  endured,  when  he  heard  the  prisoner  accuse 
HIM,  as  the  cause  of  his  present  doom,  and  felt  himself  at  once 
the  murderer  and  the  judge  of  his  son ! 

Minutes  had  elapsed  since  the  voice  of  the  prisoner  ceased ; 
and  Brandon  now  drew  forth  the  black  cap.  As  he  placed  it 
slowly  over  his  brows,  the  increasing  and  corpse-like  whiteness 
of  his  face  became  more  glaringly  visible,  by  the  contrast  which 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  391 

this  dread  head-gear  presented.  Twice  as  he  essayed  to  sp<  ak 
his  voice  failed  him,  and  an  indistinct  murmur  came  forth  fiom 
his  hueless  lips,  and  died  away  like  a  fitful  and  feeble  wind. 
But  with  the  third  effort,  the  resolution  and  long  self-tyranny 
of  the  man  conquered,  and  his  voice  went  clear  and  unfaltering 
through  the  crowd,  although  the  severe  sweetness  of  its  wonted 
tones  was  gone,  and  it  sounded  strange  and  hollow  on  the  ears 
that  drank  it. 

"Prisoner  at  the  bar! — It  has  become  my  duty  to  announce 
to  you  the  close  of  your  mortal  career.  You  have  been  accused 
of  a  daring  robbery,  and  after  an  impartial  trial,  a  jury  of  your 
countrymen  and  the  laws  of  your  country  have  decided  against 
you.  The  recommendation  to  mercy" — (here,  only,  through- 
out his  speech,  Brandon  gasped  convulsively  for  breath) — "so 
humanely  added  by  the  jury,  shall  be  forwarded  to  the  supreme 
power,  but  I  cannot  flatter  you  with  much  hope  of  its  suc- 
cess"— (the  lawyers  looked  with  some  surprise  at  each  other: 
they  had  expected  a  far  more  unqualified  mandate,  to  abjure 
all  hope  from  the  jury's  recommendation) — "Prisoner!  for  the 
opinions  you  have  expressed,  you  are  now  only  answerable  to 
your  God ;  I  forbear  to  arraign  them.  For  the  charge  you  have 
made  against  me,  whether  true  or  false,  and  for  the  anguish  it 
has  given  me,  may  you  find  a  pardon  at  another  tribunal !  It 
remains  for  me  only — under  a  reserve  too  slight,  as  I  have  said, 
to  afford  you  a  fair  promise  of  hope — only  to — to — (all  eyes 
were  on  Brandon :  he  felt  it,  exerted  himself  for  a  last  effort, 
and  proceeded) — to  pronounce  on  you  the  sharp  sentence  of 
the  law!  It  is,  that  you  be  taken  back  to  the  prison  whence 
you  came,  and  thence  (when  the  supreme  authority  shall  appoint) 
to  the  place  of  execution,  to  be  there  hanged  by  the  neck  till 
you  are  dead ;  and  the  Lord  God  Almighty  have  mercy  on  your 
soul!" 

With  this  address  concluded  that  eventful  trial ;  and  while 
the  crowd,  in  rushing  and  noisy  tumult,  bore  towards  the  door, 
Brandon,  concealing  to  the  last,  with  a  Spartan  bravery,  the 
anguish  which  was  gnawing  at  his  entrails,  retired  from  the 
awful  pageant.  For  the  next  half-hour  he  was  locked  up  with 
the  strange  intruder  on  the  proceedings  of  the  court.  At  the 
end  of  that  time  the  stranger  was  dismissed ;  and  in  about 
double  the  same  period  Brandon's  servant  readmitted  him,  ac- 
companied by  another  man,  with  a  slouched  hat,  and  in  a  car- 
man's frock.  The  reader  need  not  be  told  that  the  new-comer 
was  the  friendly  Ned,  whose  testimony  was  indeed  a  valuable 
corroborative  to  Dummie's,  and  whose  regard  for  Clifford, 


302  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

aided  by  an  appetite  for  rewards,  had  induced  him  to  venture 

to  the  town  of ,  although  he  tarried  concealed  in  a  safe 

suburb  until  reassured  by  a  written  promise  from  Brandon  of 
safety  to  his  person,  and  a  sum  for  which  we  might  almost 
doubt  whether  he  would  not  have  consented  (so  long  had  he 
been  mistaking  means  for  an  end)  to  be  hanged  himself.  Bran- 
don listened  to  the  details  of  these  confederates,  and  when  they 
had  finished,  he  addressed  them  thus: 

"I  have  heard  you,  and  am  convinced  you  are  liars  and  im- 
postors: there  is  the  money  I  promised  you" — (throwing  down 
a  pocket-book) — "take  it;  and,  hark  you,  if  ever  you  dare 
whisper — ay,  but  a  breath  of  the  atrocious  lie  you  have  now 
forged,  be  sure  I  will  have  you  dragged  from  the  recess  or  nook 
of  infamy  in  which  you  may  hide  your  heads,  and  hanged  for 
the  crimes  you  have  already  committed.  I  am  not  the  man  to 
break  my  word — begone! — quit  this  town  instantly:  if,  in  two 
hours  hence,  you  are  found  here,  your  blood  be  on  your  own 
heads! — Begone,  I  say!" 

These  words,  aided  by  a  countenance  well  adapted  at  all 
times  to  expressions  of  a  menacing  and  ruthless  character,  at 
once  astounded  and  appalled  the  accomplices.  They  left  the 
room  in  hasty  confusion;  and  Brandon,  now  alone,  walked 
with  uneven  steps  (the  alarming  weakness  and  vacillation  of 
which  he  did  not  himself  feel)  to  and  fro  the  apartment.  The 
hell  of  his  breast  was  stamped  upon  his  features,  but  he  uttered 
only  one  thought  aloud! 

"I  may, — yes,  yes, — I  may  yet  conceal  this  disgrace  to  my 
name!" 

His  servant  tapped  at  the  door  to  say  that  the  carriage  was 
ready,  and  that  Lord  Mauleverer  had  bid  him  remind  his  master 
that  they  dined  punctually  at  the  hour  appointed. 

"I  am  coming!"  said  Brandon,  with  a  slow  and  startling  em- 
phasis on  each  word.  But  he  first  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter 
to  the  official  quarter,  strongly  aiding  the  recommendation  of  the 
jury ;  and  we  may  conceive  how  pride  clung  to  him  to  the  last, 
when  he  urged  the  substitution  for  death  of  transportion/0r  life! 
As  soon  as  he  had  sealed  this  letter,  he  summoned  an  express, 
gave  his  orders  coolly  and  distinctly,  and  attempted,  with  his 
usual  stateliness  of  step,  to  walk  through  a  long  passage  which 
led  to  the  outer  door.  He  found  himself  fail.  "Come  hither," 
he  said  to  his  servant — "give  me  your  arm!" 

All  Brandon's  domestics,  save  the  one  left  with  Lucy,  stood 
in  awe  of  him,  and  it  was  with  some  hesitation  that  his  servant 
ventured  to  inquire  "if  his  master  felt  well." 


PAUL  CLIFFORD.  393 

Brandon  looked  at  him,  but  made  no  reply:  he  entered 
his  carriage  with  slight  difficulty,  and,  telling  the  coachman  to 
drive  as  fast  as  possible,  pulled  down  (a  general  custom  with 
him)  all  the  blinds  of  the  windows. 

Meanwhile,  Lord  Mauleverer,  with  six  friends,  was  impa- 
tiently awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  seventh  guest. 

"Our  august  friend  tarries!"  quoth  the  Bishop  of , 

with  his  hands  folded  across  his  capacious  stomach.  "I  fear 
the  turbot  your  lordship  spoke  of  may  not  be  the  better  for  the 
length  of  the  trial." 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  the  Earl  of ,  slightly  yawning. 

"Whom  do  you  mean?"  asked  Mauleverer,  with  a  smile. 
"The  bishop,  the  judge,  or  the  turbot?" 

"Not  one  of  the  three,  Mauleverer, — I  spoke  of  the  prisoner." 

"Ah,  the  fine  dog!  I  forgot  him,"  said  Mauleverer.  "Really, 
now  you  mention  him,  I  must  confess  that  he  inspires  me  with 
great  compassion ;  but,  indeed,  it  is  very  wrong  in  him  to  keep 
the  judge  so  long!" 

"Those  hardened  wretches  have  such  a  great  deal  to  say," 
mumbled  the  bishop  sourly. 

"True!"  said  Mauleverer;  "a  religious  rogue  would  have 
had  some  bowels  for  the  state  of  the  church  esurient." 

"Is  it  really  true,  Mauleverer,"  asked  the  Earl  of , 

"that  Brandon  is  to  succeed ?" 

"So  I  hear, "  said  Mauleverer.  "Heavens!  how  hungry  I  am!" 

A  groan  from  the  bishop  echoed  the  complaint. 

"I  suppose  it  would  be  against  all  decorum  to  sit  down  to 
dinner  without  him?"  said  Lord --. 

"Why,  really,  I  fear  so,"  returned  Mauleverer.  "But  our 
health — our  health  is  at  stake :  we  will  only  wait  five  minutes 
more.  By  Jove,  there's  the  carriage!  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
my  heathen  oath,  my  lord  bishop." 

"I  forgive  you!"  said  the  good  bishop,  smiling. 

The  party  thus  engaged  in  colloquy  were  stationed  at  a  win- 
dow opening  on  the  gravel  road,  along  which  the  judge's  car- 
riage was  now  seen  rapidly  approaching ;  this  window  was  but 
a  few  yards  from  the  porch,  and  had  been  partially  opened  for 
the  better  reconnoitring  the  approach  of  the  expected  guest. 

"He  keeps  the  blinds  down  still !  Absence  of  mind,  or  shame 
at  unpunctuality — which  is  the  cause,  Mauleverer?"  said  one 
of  the  party. 

"Not  shame,  I  fear!"  answered  Mauleverer.  "Even  the  in- 
decent immorality  of  delaying  our  dinner  could  scarcely  bring  a 
blush  to  the  parchment  skin  of  my  learned  friend." 


394  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

Here  the  carriage  stopped  at  the  porch ;  the  carriage-door 
was  opened. 

"There  seems  a  strange  delay,"  said  Mauleverer  peevishly. 
"Why  does  not  he  get  out?" 

As  he  spoke,  a  murmur  among  the  attendants,  who  appeared 
somewhat  strangely  to  crowd  around  the  carriage,  smote  the 
ears  of  the  party. 

"What  do  they  say? — What?"  said  Mauleverer,  putting  his 
hand  to  his  ear. 

The  bishop  answered  hastily;  and  Mauleverer,  as  he  heard 
the  reply,  forgot  for  once  his  susceptibility  to  cold,  and  hurried 
out  to  the  carriage-door.  His  guests  followed. 

They  found  Brandon  leaning  against  the  farther  corner  of 
the  carriage — a  corpse.  One  hand  held  the  check-string,  as 
if  he  had  endeavored  involuntarily,  but  ineffectually,  to  pull  it. 
The  right  side  of  his  face  was  partially  distorted,  as  by  con- 
vulsions or  paralysis;  but  not  sufficiently  so  to  destroy  that  re- 
markable expression  of  loftiness  and  severity  which  had  char- 
acterized the  features  in  life.  At  the  same  time  the  distortion, 
which  had  drawn  up  on  one  side  the  muscles  of  the  mouth,  had 
deepened  into  a  startling  broadness  the  half-sneer  of  derision 
that  usually  lurked  around  _the  lower  part  of  his  face.  Thus 
unwitnessed  and  abrupt  had  been  the  disunion  of  the  clay  and 
spirit  of  a  man,  who,  if  he  passed  through  life  a  bold,  scheming, 
stubborn,  unwavering  hypocrite,  was  not  without  something 
high  even  amidst  his  baseness,  his  selfishness,  and  his  vices: 
who  seemed  less  to  have  loved  sin  than,  by  some  strange  per- 
version of  reason,  to  have  disdained  virtue,  and  who,  by  a  sol- 
emn and  awful  suddenness  of  fate  (for  who  shall  venture  to  in- 
dicate the  judgment  of  the  arch  and  unseen  Providence,  even 
when  it  appears  to  mortal  eye  the  least  obscured?),  won  the 
dreams,  the  objects,  the  triumphs  of  hope,  to  be  blasted  by 
them  at  the  moment  of  acquisition! 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

AND  LAST. 

"  — — Subtle, — Surly, — Mammon,  Dol, 
Hot  Ananias,  Dapper,  Drugger,  all 
With  whom  I  traded." — The  Alchemist. 

As  when  some  rural  citizen — retired  for  a  fleeting  holyday, 
far  from  the  cares  of  the  world,  " '  strepitumque  Romce,  "*  to 

*  And  the  roar  of  Rome. 


t>AUL    CLIFFORD.  395 

the  sweet  shades  of  Pentonville,  or  the  remoter  plains  of  Clap- 
ham — conducts  some  delighted  visitor  over  the  intricacies  of 
that  Daedalian  masterpiece  which  he  is  pleased  to  call  his  laby- 
rinth or  maze, — now  smiling  furtively  at  his  guest's  perplex- 
ity,— now  listening  with  calm  superiority  to  his  futile  and  erring 
conjectures, — now  maliciously  accompanying  him  through  a 
flattering  path,  in  which  the  baffled  adventurer  is  suddenly 
checked  by  the  blank  features  of  a  thoroughfareless  hedge, — 
now  trembling  as  he  sees  the  guest  stumbling  unawares  into  the 
right  track,  and  now  relieved  as  he  beholds  him,  after  a  pause 
of  deliberation,  wind  into  the  wrong, — even  so,  O  pleasant 
reader!  doth  the  sage  novelist  conduct  thee  through  the  laby- 
rinth of  his  tale,  amusing  himself  with  thy  self-deceits,  and 
spinning  forth,  in  prolix  pleasure,  the  quiet  yarn  of  his  enter- 
tainment from  the  involutions  which  occasion  thy  fretting  eager- 
ness and  perplexity.  But  as  when — thanks  to  the  host's  good- 
nature or  fatigue! — the  mystery  is  once  unravelled,  and  the 
guest  permitted  to  penetrate  even  unto  the  concealed  end  of 
the  leafy  maze ;  the  honest  cit,  satisfied  with  the  pleasant  pains 
he  has  already  bestowed  upon  his  visitor,  puts  him  not  to  the 
labor  of  retracing  the  steps  he  hath  so  erratically  trod,  but  leads 
him  in  three  strides,  and  through  a  simpler  path,  at  once  to  the 
mouth  of  the  maze,  and  dismisseth  him  elsewhere  for  entertain- 
ment ;  even  so  will  the  prudent  narrator,  when  the  intricacies 
of  his  plot  are  once  unfolded,  occasion  no  stale  and  profitless 
delays  to  his  wearied  reader,  but  conduct  him,  with  as  much 
brevity  as  convenient,  without  the  labyrinth  which  has  ceased 
to  retain  the  interest  of  a  secret. 

We  shall,  therefore,  in  pursuance  of  the  cit's  policy,  relate, 
as  rapidly  as  possible,  that  part  of  our  narrative  which  yet  re- 
mains untold.  On  Brandon's  person  was  found  the  paper 
which  had  contained  so  fatal  an  intelligence  of  his  son;  and 
when  brought  to  Lord  Mauleverer,  the  words  struck  that  per- 
son (who  knew  Brandon  had  been  in  search  of  his  lost  son, 
whom  we  have  seen  that  he  had  been  taught  however  to  suppose 
illegitimate,  though  it  is  probable  that  many  doubts,  whether 
he  had  not  been  deceived,  must  have  occurred  to  his  natural 
sagacity)  as  sufficiently  important  to  be  worth  an  inquiry  after 
the  writer.  Dummie  was  easily  found,  for  he  had  not  yet  turned 
his  back  on  the  town  when  the  news  of  the  judge's  sudden 
death  was  brought  back  to  it;  and,  taking  advantage  of  that 
circumstance,  the  friendly  Dunnaker  remained  altogether  in  the 
town  (albeit  his  long  companion  deserted  it  as  hastily  as  might 
be),  and  whiled  the  time  by  presenting  himself  at  the  gaol, 


396  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

and,  after  some  ineffectual  efforts,  winning  his  way  to  Clifford: 
easily  tracked  by  the  name  he  had  given  to  the  governor  of  the 
gaol,  he  was  conducted  the  same  day  to  Lord  Mauleverer,  and 
his  narrative,  confused  as  it  was,  and  proceeding  even  from  so 
suspicious  a  quarter,  thrilled  those  digestive  organs  which 
in  Mauleverer  stood  proxy  for  a  heart,  with  feelings  as  much 
resembling  awe  and  horror  as  our  good  peer  was  capable  of  ex- 
periencing. Already  shocked  from  his  worldly  philosophy  of 
indifference  by  the  death  of  Brandon,  he  was  more  susceptible 
to  a  remorseful  and  salutary  impression  at  this  moment  than  he 
might  have  been  at  any  other :  and  he  could  not,  without  some 
twinges  of  conscience,  think  of  the  ruin  he  had  brought  on  the 
mother  of  the  being  he  had  but  just  prosecuted  to  the  death.  He 
dismissed  Dummie,  and,  after  a  little  consideration,  he  ordered 
his  carriage,  and,  leaving  the  funeral  preparations  for  his  friend 
to  the  care  of  his  man  of  business,  he  set  off  for  London,  and 
the  house,  in  particular,  of  the  Secretary  of  the  Home  Depart- 
ment. We  would  not  willingly  wrong  the  noble  penitent ;  but 
we  venture  a  suspicion  that  he  might  not  have  preferred  a  per- 
sonal application  for  mercy  to  the  prisoner  to  a  written  one, 
had  he  not  felt  certain  unpleasant  qualms  in  remaining  in  a 
country  house  overshadowed  by  ceremonies  so  gloomy  as  those 
of  death.  The  letter  of  Brandon,  and  the  application  of  Maul- 
everer, obtained  for  Clifford  a  relaxation  of  his  sentence.  He 
was  left  for  perpetual  transportation.  A  ship  was  already  about 
to  sail,  and  Mauleverer,  content  with  having  saved  his  life,  was 
by  no  means  anxious  that  his  departure  from  the  country  should 
be  saddled  with  any  superfluous  delay. 

Meanwhile,  the  first  rumor  that  reached  London  respecting 
Brandon's  fate  was,  that  he  had  been  found  in  a  fit,  and  was 
lying  dangerously  ill  at  Mauleverer's;  and  before  the  second 
and  more  fatally  sure  report  arrived,  Lucy  had  gathered  from 
the  visible  dismay  of  Barlow,  whom  she  anxiously  cross-ques- 
tioned, and  who,  really  loving  his  master,  was  easily  affected 
into  communication,  the  first  and  more  flattering  intelligence. 
To  Barlow's  secret  delight,  she  insisted  instantly  on  setting 
off  to  the  supposed  sick  man ;  and,  accompanied  by  Barlow  and 
her  woman,  the  affectionate  girl  hastened  to  Mauleverer's 
house  on  the  evening  after  the  day  the  earl  left  it.  Lucy  had 
not  proceeded  far  before  Barlow  learned,  from  the  gossip  of 
the  road,  the  real  state  of  the  case.  Indeed,  it  was  at  the 
first  stage  that  with  a  mournful  countenance,  he  approached 
the  door  of  the  carriage,  and  announcing  the  inutility  of  pro- 
ceeding farther,  begged  of  Lucy  to  turn  back.  So  soon  as  Miss 


PAUL    CLIFFORD.  397 

Brandon  had  overcome  the  first  shock  which  this  intelligence 
gave  her  she  said,  with  calmness,  "Well,  Barlow,  if  it  be  so,  we 
have  still  a  duty  to  perform.  Teli  the  post-boys  to  drive  on!" 

"Indeed,  madam,  I  cannot  see  what  use  it  can  be  fretting 
yourself, — and  you  so  poorly.  If  you  will  let  me  go,  I  will  see 
every  attention  paid  to  the  remains  of  my  poor  master." 

"When  my  father  lay  dead,"  said  Lucy,  with  a  grave  and 
sad  sternness  in  her  manner,  "he  who  is  now  no  more  sent  no 
proxy  to  perform  the  last  duties  of  a  brother;  neither  will  I 
send  one  to  discharge  those  of  a  niece,  and  prove  that  I  have 
forgotten  the  gratitude  of  a  daughter.  Drive  on!" 

We  have  said  that  there  were  times  when  a  spirit  was  stricken 
from  Lucy  little  common  to  her  in  general,  and  now  the  com- 
mand of  her  uncle  sat  upon  her  brow.  On  sped  the  horses,  and 
for  several  minutes  Lucy  remained  silent.  Her  woman  did  not 
dare  to  speak.  At  length  Miss  Brandon  turned,  and,  covering 
her  face  with  her  hands,  burst  into  tears  so  violent  that  they 
alarmed  her  attendant  even  more  than  her  previous  stillness. 
"My  poor,  poor  uncle!"  she  sobbed,  and  those  were  all  her 
words. 

We  must  pass  over  Lucy's  arrival  at  Lord  Mauleverer's 
house, — we  must  pass  over  the  weary  days  which  elapsed  till  that 
unconscious  body  was  consigned  to  dust  with  which,  could  it 
have  yet  retained  one  spark  of  its  haughty  spirit,  it  would  have 
refused  to  blend  its  atoms.  She  had  loved  the  deceased  incom- 
parably beyond  his  merits,  and,  resisting  all  remonstrance  to 
the  contrary,  and  all  the  forms  of  ordinary  custom,  she  wit- 
nessed herself  the  dreary  ceremony  which  bequeathed  the  hu- 
man remains  of  William  Brandon  to  repose  and  to  the  worm. 
On  .that  same  day  Clifford  received  the  mitigation  of  his  sen- 
tence, and  on  that  day  another  trial  awaited  Lucy.  We  think 
briefly  to  convey  to  the  reader  what  that  scene  was;  we  need 
only  observe,  that  Dummie  Dunnaker,  decoyed  by  his  great 
love  for  little  Paul,  whom  he  delightedly  said  he  found  not  the 
least  "stuck  up  by  his  great  fame  and  helewation,"  still  lin- 
gered in  the  town,  and  was  not  only  aware  of  the  relationship 
of  the  cousins,  but  had  gleaned  from  Long  Ned,  as  they  jour- 
neyed down  to ,  the  affection  entertained  by  Clifford  for 

Lucy.  Of  the  manner  in  which  the  communication  reached 
Lucy,  we  need  not  speak;  suffice  it  to  say,  that  on  the  day  in 
which  she  had  performed  the  last  duty  to  her  uncle,  she  learned 
for  the  first  time  her  lover's  situation. 

On  that  evening,  in  the  convict's  cell,  the  cousins  met. 
Their  conference  was  low,  for  the  gaoler  stood  within  hearing ; 


398  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

and  it  was  broken  by  Lucy's  convulsive  sobs.  But  the  voice 
of  one,  whose  iron  nerves  were  not  unworthy  of  the  offspring 
of  William  Brandon,  was  clear  and  audible  to  her  ear,  even 
though  uttered  in  a  whisper  that  scarcely  stirred  his  lips.  It 
seemed  as  if  Lucy,  smitten  to  the  inmost  heart  by  the  generos- 
ity with  which  her  lover  had  torn  himself  from  her,  at  the  time 
that  her  wealth  might  have  raised  him,  in  any  other  country,  far 
above  the  perils  and  the  crimes  of  his  career  in  this, — perceiv- 
ing now,  for  the  first  time,  and  in  all  their  force,  the  causes  of 
his  mysterious  conduct ;  melted  by  their  relationship,  and  for- 
getting herself  utterly  in  the  desolate  and  dark  situation  in 
which  she  beheld  one  who,  whatever  his  crimes,  had  not  been 
criminal  towards  her, — it  seemed  as  if,  carried  away  by  these 
emotions,  she  had  yielded  altogether  to  the  fondness  and  devo- 
tion of  her  nature, — that  she  had  wished  to  leave  home,  and 
friends,  and  fortune,  and  share  with  him  his  punishment  and 
his  shame. 

"Why!"  she  faltered;  "why — why  not?  we  are  all  that  is  left 
to  each  other  in  the  world!  Your  father  and  mine  were  broth- 
ers, let  me  be  to  you  as  a  sister.  What  is  there  left  for  me  here? 
Not  one  being  whom  I  love,  or  who  cares  for  me — not  one!" 

It  was  then  that  Clifford  summoned  all  his  courage,  as  he 
answered:  perhaps,  now  that  he  felt — (though  here  his  knowl- 
edge was  necessarily  confused  and  imperfect) — his  birth  was 
not  unequal  to  hers — now  that  he  read,  or  believed  he  read,  in 
her  wan  cheek  and  attenuated  frame,  that  desertion  to  her  was 
death,  and  that  generosity  and  self-sacrifice  had  become  too 
late, — perhaps,  these  thoughts  concurring  with  a  love  in  him- 
self beyond  all  words,  and  a  love  in  her  which  it  was  abov<?  hu- 
manity to  resist,  altogether  conquered  and  subdued  him.  Yet, 
as  we  have  said,  his  voice  breathed  calmly  in  her  ear,  and  his 
eye  only,  which  brightened  with  a  steady  and  resolute  hope, 
betrayed  his  mind.  "Live,  then!"  said  he,  as  he  concluded. 
"My  sister,  my  mistress,  my  bride,  live!  In  one  year  from 
this  day  ...  I  repeat  ...  I  promise  it  thee!" 

The  interview  was  over,  and  Lucy  returned  home  with  a  firm 
step.  She  was  on  foot ;  the  rain  fell  in  torrents;  yet,  even  in 
her  precarious  state,  her  health  suffered  not;  and  when  within 
a  week  from  that  time  she  read  that  Clifford  had  departed  to 
the  bourn  of  his  punishment,  she  read  the  news  with  a  steady 
eye  and  a  lip  that,  if  it  grew  paler,  did  not  quiver. 

Shortly  after  that  time,  Miss  Brandon  departed  to  an  obscure 
town  by  the  sea-side ;  and  there,  refusing  all  society,  she  contin- 
ued to  reside.  As  the  birth  of  Clifford  was  known  but  to  few, 


PAUL   CLIFFORD.  399 

and  his  legitimacy  was  unsuspected  by  all,  except,  perhaps,  by 
Mauleverer,  Lucy  succeeded  to  the  great  wealth  of  her  uncle,  and 
this  circumstance  made  her  more  than  ever  an  object  of  attrac- 
tion in  the  eyes  of  her  noble  adorer.  Finding  himself  unable  to 
see  her,  he  wrote  to  her  more  than  one  moving  epistle;  but  as 
Lucy  continued  inflexible,  he  at  length,  disgusted  by  her  want 
of  taste,  ceased  his  pursuit,  and  resigned  himself  to  the  con- 
tinued sterility  of  unwedded  life.  As  the  months  waned.  Miss 
Brandon  seemed  to  grow  weary  of  her  retreat ;  and  immediately 
on  attaining  her  majority,  which  she  did  about  eight  months 
after  Brandon's  death,  she  transferred  the  bulk  of  her  wealth 
to  France,  where  it  was  understood  (for  it  was  impossible  that 
rumor  should  sleep  upon  an  heiress  and  a  beauty)  that  she  in- 
tended in  future  to  reside.  Even  Warlock  (that  spell  to  the 
proud  heart  of  her  uncle)  she  ceased  to  retain.  It  was  offered 
to  the  nearest  relation  of  the  family  at  a  sum  which  he  did  not 
hesitate  to  close  with.  And,  by  the  common  vicissitudes  of 
Fortune,  the  estate  of  the  ancient  Brandons  has  now,  we  per- 
ceive by  a  weekly  journal,  just  passed  into  the  hands  of  a 
wealthy  alderman. 

It  was  nearly  a  year  since  Brandon's  death,  when  a  letter, 
bearing  a  foreign  post-mark,  came  to  Lucy.  From  that  time, 
her  spirits — which  before,  though  subject  to  fits  of  abstraction, 
had  been  even,  and  subdued,  not  sad — rose  into  all  the  cheer- 
fulness and  vivacity  of  her  earliest  youth;  she  busied  herself 
actively  in  preparations  for  her  departure  from  this  country ; 
and,  at  length,  the  day  was  fixed,  and  the  vessel  was  engaged. 
Every  day  till  that  one,  did  Lucy  walk  to  the  sea-side,  and 
ascending  the  highest  cliff,  spend  hours,  till  the  evening  closed, 
in  watching,  with  seemingly  idle  gaze,  the  vessels  that  inter- 
spersed the  sea;  and  with  every  day  her  health  seemed  to 
strengthen,  and  the  soft  and  lucid  color  she  had  once  worn,  to 
re-bloom  upon  her  cheek. 

Previous  to  her  departure,  Miss  Brandon  dismissed  her  ser- 
vants, and  only  engaged  one  female,  a  foreigner,  to  accompany 
her:  a  certain  tone  of  quiet  command,  formerly  unknown  to 
her,  characterized  these  measures,  so  daringly  independent  foi 
one  of  her  sex  and  age.  The  day  arrived — it  was  the  anniver- 
sary of  her  last  interview  with  Clifford.  On  entering  the  ves- 
sel, it  was  observed  that  she  trembled  violently,  rnd  that  her 
face  was  as  pale  as  death.  A  stranger,  who  had  stood  aloof 
wrapped  in  his  cloak,  darted  forward  to  assist  her;  that  was 
the  last  which  her  discarded  and  weeping  servants  beheld  of 
her  from  the  pier  where  they  stood  to  gaze. 


4OO  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

Nothing  more,  in  this  country,  was  ever  known  of  the  fate  of 
Lucy  Brandon;  and  as  her  circle  of  acquaintances  was  narrow, 
and  interest  in  her  fate  existed  vividly  in  none,  save  a  few 
humble  breasts,  conjecture  was  never  keenly  awakened,  and 
soon  cooled  into  forgetfulness.  If  it  favored,  alter  the  lapse  of 
years,  any  one  notion  more  than  another,  it  was  that  she  had 
perished  among  the  victims  of  the  French  Revolution. 

Meanwhile,  let  us  glance  over  the  destinies  of  our  more  sub- 
ordinate acquaintances. 

Augustus  Tomlinson,  on  parting  from  Long  Ned,  had  suc- 
ceeded in  reaching  Calais ;  and,  after  a  rapid  tour  through  the 
Continent,  he  ultimately  betook  himself  to  a  certain  literary  city 
in  Germany,  where  he  became  distinguished  for  his  metaphysi- 
cal acumen,  and  opened  a  school  of  morals  on  the  Grecian 
model  taught  in  the  French  tongue.  He  managed,  by  the  pat- 
ronage he  received,  and  the  pupils  he  enlightened,  to  obtain  a 
very  decent  income ;  and  as  he  wrote  a  folio  against  Locke, 
proved  that  men  had  innate  feelings,  and  affirmed  that  we 
should  refer  everything  not  to  reason,  but  to  the  sentiments  of 
the  soul,  he  became  greatly  respected  for  his  extraordinary  vir- 
tue. Some  little  discoveries  were  made  after  his  death,  which, 
perhaps,  would  have  somewhat  diminished  the  general  odor  of 
his  sanctity,  had  not  the  admirers  of  his  school  carefully  hushed 
up  the  matter,  probably  out  of  respect  for  "the  sentiments  of 
the  soul!" 

Pepper,  whom  the  police  did  not  so  anxiously  desire  to 
destroy  as  they  did  his  two  companions,  might  have  managed, 
perhaps,  many  years  longer,  to  graze  upon  the  public  commons, 
had  not  a  letter,  written  somewhat  imprudently,  fallen  into 
wrong  hands.  This,  though  after  creating  a  certain  stir  it  ap- 
parently died  away,  lived  in  the  memory  of  the  police,  and 
finally  conspired,  with  various  peccadilloes,  to  produce  his 
downfall.  He  was  seized,  tried,  and  sentenced  to  seven  years' 
transportation.  He  so  advantageously  employed  his  time  at 
Botany  Bay,  and  arranged  things  there  so  comfortably  to  him- 
self, that  at  the  expiration  of  his  sentence  he  refused  to  return 
home.  He  made  an  excellent  match,  built  himself  an  excel- 
lent house,  and  remained  in  "the  land  of  the  blest"  to  the  end 
of  his  days,  noted  to  the  last  for  the  redundance  of  his  hair, 
and  a  certain  ferocious  coxcombry  of  aspect. 

As  for  righting  Attie  and  Gentleman  George,  for  Scarlet 
Jem  and  for  Old  Bags,  we  confess  ourselves  destitute  of  any 
certain  information  of  their  latter  ends.  We  can  only  add, 
with  regard  to  fighting  Attie, — "Gopd  luck  be  with  him  wh«re- 


!>AtJL    CLIFFORD.  4OI 

ever  he  goes!"  And  for  mine  host  of  the  "Jolly  Angler," 
that,  though  we  have  not  the  physical  constitution  to  quaff  "a 
bumper  of  blue  ruin,"  we  shall  be  very  happy,  over  any  toler- 
able wine,  and  in  company  with  any  agreeable  convivialists,  to 
bear  our  part  in  the  polished  chorus  of: 

"  Here's  to  Gentleman  George,  God  bless  him  !" 

Mrs.  Lobkins  departed  this  life  like  a  lamb :  and  Dummie 
Dunnaker  obtained  a  license  to  carry  on  the  business  at 
Thames  Court.  He  boasted,  to  the  last,  of  his  acquaintance 
with  the  great  Captain  Lovett,  and  of  the  affability  with  which 
that  distinguished  personage  treated  him.  Stories  he  had, 
too,  about  Judge  Brandon,  but  no  one  believed  a  syllable  of 
them ;  and  Dummie,  indignant  at  the  disbelief,  increased  out 
of  vehemence,  the  marvel  of  the  stories:  so  that,  at  length, 
what  was  added  almost  swallowed  up  what  was  original,  and 
Dummie  himself  might  have  been  puzzled  to  satisfy  his  own 
conscience  as  to  what  was  false  and  what  was  true. 

The  erudite  Peter  Mac  Crawler,  returning  to  Scotland,  dis- 
appeared by  the  road;  a  person,  singularly  resembling  the 
sage  was  afterwards  seen  at  Carlisle,  where  he  discharged  the 
useful  and  praiseworthy  duties  of  Jack  Ketch.  But  whether 
or  not  this  respectable  functionary  was  our  identical  Simon 
Pure,  our  ex-editor  of  "The  Asinseum,"  we  will  not  take  it 
upon  ourselves  to  assert. 

Lord  Mauleverer,  finally  resolving  on  a  single  life,  passed 
the  remainder  of  his  years  in  indolent  tranquillity.  When  he 
died,  the  newspapers  asserted  that  his  Majesty  was  deeply 
affected  by  the  loss  of  so  old  and  valued  a  friend.  His  fur- 
niture and  wines  sold  remarkably  high ;  and  a  Great  Man,  his 
particular  intimate,  who  purchased  his  books,  startled  to  find, 
by  pencil  marks,  that  the  noble  deceased  had  read  some  of 
them,  exclaimed,  not  altogether  without  truth, — "Ah!  Maul- 
everer might  have  been  a  deuced  clever  fellow, — if  he  had 
liked  it!" 

The  Earl  was  accustomed  to  show,  as  a  curiosity,  a  ring  of 
great  value,  which  he  had  received,  in  rather  a  singular  man- 
ner. One  morning,  a  packet  was  brought  him  which  he  found 
to  contain  a  sum  of  money,  the  ring  mentioned,  and  a  letter 
from  the  notorious  Lovett,  in  which  that  person,  in  begging  to 
return  his  lordship  the  sums  of  which  he  had  twice  assisted  to 
rob  him,  thanked  him,  with  earnest  warmth,  for  the  considera- 
tion testified  towards  him  in  not  revealing  his  identity  with 


402  PAUL    CLIFFORD. 

Captain  Clifford ;  and  ventured,  as  a  slight  testimony  of  re- 
spect, to  enclose  the  aforesaid  ring  with  the  sum  returned. 

About  the  time  Mauleverer  received  this  curious  packet, 
several  anecdotes  of  a  similar  nature  appeared  in  the  public 
journals;  and  it  seemed  that  Lovett  had  acted  upon  a  general 
principle  of  restitution, — not  always,  it  must  be  allowed,  the 
offspring  of  a  robber's  repentance.  While  the  idle  were  mar- 
veling at  these  anecdotes,  came  the  tardy  news  that  Lovett, 
after  a  single  month's  sojourn  at  his  place  of  condemnation, 
had,  in  the  most  daring  and  singular  manner,  effected  his 
escape.  Whether,  in  his  progress  up  the  country,  he  had  been 
starved,  or  slain  by  the  natives, — or  whether,  more  fortunate, 
he  had  ultimately  found  the  means  of  crossing  the  seas,  was  as 
yet  unknown.  There  ended  the  adventures  of  the  gallant 
robber ;  and  thus,  by  a  strange  coincidence,  the  same  mystery 
which  wrapped  the  fate  of  Lucy  involved  also  that  of  her  lover. 
And  here,  kind  reader,  might  we  drop  the  curtain  on  our  clos- 
ing scene,  did  we  not  think  it  might  please  thee  to  hold  it  up 
yet  one  moment,  and  give  thee  another  view  of  the  world 
.behind. 

In  a  certain  town  of  that  Great  Country,  where  shoes  are 
imperfectly  polished,*  and  opinions  are  not  prosecuted,  there 
resided,  twenty  years  after  the  date  of  Lucy  Brandon's  depar- 
ture from  England,  a  man  held  in  high  and  universal  respect, 
not  only  for  the  rectitude  of  his  conduct,  but  for  the  energies 
of  his  mind,  and  the  purposes  to  which  they  were  directed.  If 
you  asked  who  cultivated  that  waste?  the  answer  was — "Clif- 
ford!" Who  procured  the  establishment  of  that  hospital? — 
"Clifford!"  Who  obtained  the  redress  of  such  a  public  griev- 
ance?— "Clifford!"  Who  struggled  for  and  won  such  a  popu- 
lar benefit? — "Clifford!"  In  the  gentler  part  of  his  projects 
and  his  undertakings, — in  that  part,  above  all,  which  con- 
cerned the  sick  or  the  necessitous,  this  useful  citizen  was  sec- 
onded, or  rather  excelled,  by  a  being  over  whose  surpassing 
loveliness  Time  seemed  to  have  flown  with  a  gentle  and  charm- 
ing wing.  There  was  something  remarkable  and  touching  in 
the  love  which  this  couple  (for  the  woman  we  refer  to  was 
Clifford's  v/ife)  bore  to  each  other;  like  the  plant  on  the  plains 
of  Hebron,  the  time  which  brought  to  that  love  an  additional 
strength,  brought  to  it  also  a  softer  and  a  fresher  verdure. 
Although  their  present  neighbors  were  unacquainted  with  the 

events  of  their  earlier  life,  previous  to  their  settlement  at , 

it  was  known  that  they  had  been  wealthy  at  the  time  they  first 

*  See  Captain  Hall's  late  work  on  America. 


PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

came  to  reside  there,  and  that,  by  a  series  of  fatalities,  they 
had  lost  all :  but  Clifford  had  borne  up  manfully  against  for- 
tune ;  and  in  a  new  country,  where  men  who  prefer  labor  to 
dependence  cannot  easily  starve,  he  had  been  enabled  to  toil 
upward  through  the  severe  stages  of  poverty  and  hardship,  with 
an  honesty  and  vigor  of  character  which  won  him,  perhaps,  a 
more  hearty  esteem  for  every  successive  effort,  than  the  dis- 
play of  his  lost  riches  might  ever  have  acquired  him.  His  la- 
bors and  his  abilities  obtained  gradual  but  sure  success ;  and 
he  now  enjoyed  the  blessings  of  a  competence  earned  with 
the  most  scrupulous  integrity,  and  spent  with  the  most  kindly 
benevolence.  A  trace  of  the  trials  they  had  passed  through 
was  discernible  in  each ;  those  trials  had  stolen  the  rose  from 
the  wife's  cheek,  and  had  sown  untimely  wrinkles  in  the  broad 
brow  of  Clifford.  There  were  moments  too,  but  they  were 
only  moments,  when  the  latter  sank  from  his  wonted  elastic 
and  healthful  cheerfulness  of  mind,  into  a  gloomy  and  ab- 
stracted revery ;  but  these  moments  the  wife  watched  with  a 
jealous  and  fond  anxiety,  and  one  sound  of  her  sweet  voice 
had  the  power  to  dispel  their  influence:  and  when  Clifford 
raised  his  eyes,  and  glanced  from  her  tender  smile  around  his 
happy  home  and  his  growing  children,  or  beheld  through  the 
very  windows  of  his  room  the  public  benefits  he  had  created, 
something  of  pride  and  gladness  glowed  on  his  countenance, 
and  he  said,  though  with  glistening  eyes  and  subdued  voice,  as 
his  looks  returned  once  more  to  his  wife, — "I  owe  these  to 
thee!" 

One  trait  of  mind  especially  characterized  Clifford, — indul- 
gence to  the  faults  of  others!  "Circumstances  make  guilt," 
he  was  wont  to  say;  "let  us  endeavor  to  correct  the  circum- 
stances before  we  rail  against  the  guilt!"  His  children  prom- 
ised to  tread  in  the  same  useful  and  honorable  path  that  he 
trod  himself.  Happy  was  considered  that  family  which  had 
the  hope  to  ally  itself  with  his. 

Such  was  the  after-life  of  Clifford  and  Lucy.  Who  will  con- 
demn us  for  preferring  the  moral  of  that  fate  to  the  moral 
which  is  extorted  from  the  gibbet  and  the  hulks? — which  makes 
scarecrows,  not  beacons;  terrifies  our  weakness,  not  warns  our 
reason.  Who  does  not  allow  that  it  is  better  to  repair  than  to 
perish, — better,  too,  to  atone  as  the  citizen  than  to  repent  as 
the  hermit?  O  John  Wilkes !  Alderman  of  London,  and  Draw- 
cansir  of  Liberty,  your  life  was  not  an  iota  too  perfect, — 
your  patriotism  might  have  been  infinitely  purer, — your  morals 
would  have  admitted  indefinite  amendment :  you  are  no  great 


464  PAUL   CLIFFORD. 

favorite  with  us  or  with  the  rest  of  the  world ;  but  you  said  one 
excellent  thing,  for  which  we  look  on  you  with  benevolence, 
nay,  almost  with  respect.  We  scarcely  know  whether  to  smile 
at  its  wit,  or  to  sigh  at  its  wisdom.  Mark  this  truth,  all  ye 
gentlemen  of  England,  who  would  make  laws  as  the  Romans 
made  fasces — a  bundle  of  rods  with  an  axe  in  the  middle ; 
mark  it,  and  remember!  long  may  it  live,  allied  with  hope  in 
ourselves,  but  with  gratitude  in  our  children, — long  after  the 
book  which  it  now  "adorns"  and  "points"  has  gone  to  its 
dusty  slumber, — long,  long  after  the  feverish  hand  which  now 
writes  it  down  can  defend  or  enforce  it  no  more:  "THE  VERY 
WORST  USE  TO  WHICH  YOU  CAN  PUT  A  MAN  IS  TO  HANG 
HIM!" 


NOTE.  405 


NOTE.— (Page  401.) 


IN  the  second  edition  of  this  novel  there  were  here  inserted  two  "  characters  "  of  "  Fight- 
ing Attie  "  and  "  Gentleman  George,"  omitted  in  the  subsequent  edition  published  by  Mr. 
Bentley  in  the  Standard  Novels.  At  the  request  of  some  admirers  of  those  eminent  per- 
sonages, who  considered  the  biographical  sketches  referred  to  impartial  in  themselves,  and 
contributing  to  the  completeness  of  the  design  for  which  men  so  illustrious  were  introduced, 
they  are  here  retained,  —  though  in  the  more  honorable  form  of  a  separate  and  supple- 
mentary notice. 

FIGHTING  ATTIE. 

When  he  dies,  the  road  will  have  lost  a  great  man,  whose  foot  was  rarely  out  of  his  stir- 
rup, and  whose  clear  head  guided  a  bold  hand.  He  carried  common  sense  to  its  perfec- 
tion —  and  he  made  the  straight  path  the  sublimest.  His  words  were  few,  his  actions  were 
many.  He  was  the  Spartan  of  Tobymen,  and  laconism  was  the  short  soul  of  his  profes- 
sional legislation  ! 

Whatever  way  you  view  him,  you  see  these  properties  of  mind  which  command  fortune  ; 
few  thoughts  not  confusing  each  other  —  simple  elements  and  bold.  His  character  in  action 
may  be  summed  in  two  phrases.  "  a  fact  seized  and  a  stroke  made."  Had  his  intellect  been 
more  luxurious,  his  resolution  might  have  been  less  hardy—  and  his  hardiness  made  his 
greatness.  He  was  one  of  those  who  shine  but  in  action  —  chimneys  (to  adapt  the  simile 
of  Sir  Thomas  More)  that  seem  useless  till  you  light  your  fire.  So  in  calm  moments  you 
dreamed  not  of  his  utility,  and  only  on  the  road  you  were  struck  dumb  with  the  outbreak- 
ing of  his  genius.  Whatever  situation  he  was  called  to,  you  found  in  him  what  you  looked 
for  in  vain  in  others  ;  for  his  strong  sense  gave  to  Attie  what  long  experience  ought,  but 
often  fails,  to  give  to  its  possessors  ;  his  energy  triumphed  over  the  sense  of  novel  circum- 
stance, and  he  broke  in  a  moment  through  the  cobwebs  which  entangled  lesser  natures  for 
years.  His  eye  saw  a  final  result,  and  disregarded  the  detail.  He  robbed  his  men  without 
chicanery  ;  and  took  his  purse  by  applying  for  it,  rather  than  scheming.  If  his  enemies 
wish  to  detract  from  his  merit,  —  a  merit  great,  dazzling,  and  yet  solid,—  they  may,  perhaps, 
say  that  his  genius  fitted  him  better  to  continue  exploits  than  to  devise  them  :  and  thus 
that,  besides  the  renown  which  he  may  justly  claim,  he  often  wholly  engrossed  that  fame 
which  should  have  been  shared  by  others  ;  he  took  up  the  enterprise  where  it  ceased  at 
Labor,  and  carried  it  onwards,  where  it  was  rewarded  with  Glory.  Even  this  charge  proves 
a  new  merit  of  address,  and  lessens  not  the  merit  less  complicated  we  have  allowed  him 
before.  The  fame  he  has  acquired  may  excite  our  emulation  ;  the  envy  he  has  not  ap- 
peased may  console  us  for  obscurity. 


'Avapiduarot  Kpe/iavrat. 
TOVTO  f  apA^avov  evpclv, 
'Ori  vvv,  KOI  sv  -retevrq.  QepraTov  avipl  rv^etv. 
FIND.  Olymp.  vii.  I.  43,  48.* 

GENTLEMAN  GEORGE. 

For  thee,  Gentleman  George,  for  thee,  what  conclusive  valediction  remains  ?  Alas  !  since 
we  began  the  strange  and  mumming  scene  wherein  first  thou  wert  introduced,  the  grim 
foe  hath  knocked  thrice  at  thy  gates  ;  and  now,  as  we  write,  t  thou  art  departed  thcnct— 

•  Thug,  not  too  vigorously,  translated  by  Mr.  West: 
"  But  wrapt  in  error  is  the  human  mind, 

And  human  blins  is  ever  insecure  ; 
Know  ye  what  fortune  shall  remain  behind  t 
Know  ye  how  long  the  present  shall  endur*  I 

tin  1MO. 


405  NOTE. 

thou  art  no  more  !  a  new  lord  presides  in  thine  easy  chair,  a  new  voice  rings  from  thy  merry 
board — thou  art  forgotten  !  thou  art  already  like  these  pages,  a  tale  that  is  told  to  a  mem- 
ory that  retaineth  not !  Where  are  thy  quips  and  cranks  ?  where  thy  stately  coxcombries 
and  thy  regal  gauds  ?  Thine  house  and  thy  pagoda,  thy  Gothic  chimney,  and  thy  Chi- 
nese sign-post  ;  these  yet  ask  the  concluding  hand  :  thy  hand  is  cold  ;  their  completion,  and 
the  enjoyment  the  completion  yields,  are  for  another !  Thou  sowest,  and  thy  follower 
reaps  ;  thou  buildest,  thy  successor  holds :  thou  plantest,  and  thine  heir  sits  beneath  the 
shadow  of  thy  trees; 

"  Neque  harum,  quas  colis,  arborum 
Te,  prater  invisas  cupressos, 

Ulla  brevem  dominum  sequetur  !"  * 

At  this  moment,  thy  life — for  thou  wert  a  Great  Man  to  thine  order,  and  they  have  added 
thy  biography  to  that  of  Abcrshawand  Sheppard— thy  life  is  before  us  !  What  a  homily  in 
its  events  !  Gayly  didst  thou  laugh  into  thy  youth,  and  run  through  the  courses  of  thy  man- 
hood; Wit  sat  at  thy  tables,  and  Genius  was  thy  comrade;  Beauty  was  thy  handmaid; 
and  Frivolity  played  around  thee,— a  buffoon  that  thou  didst  ridicule,  and  ridiculing  enjoy  ! 
Who  among  us  can  look  back  to  thy  brilliant  era,  and  not  sigh  to  think  that  the  wonderful 
men  who  surrounded  thee,  and  amidst  whom  thou  wert  a  centre,  and  a  nucleus,  are  for  him 
but  the  things  of  history,  and  the  phantoms  of  a  bodiless  tradition  ?  Those  brilliant  sup- 
pers, glittering  with  beauty,  the  memory  of  which  makes  one  spot  (yet  inherited  by  Bach- 
elor Bill)  a  haunted  and  a  fairy  ground ;  all  who  gathered  to  that  Armida's  circle,  the 
Grammonts,  and  the  Beauvilliers,  and  the  Rochefoucaults  of  England  and  the  Road, — who 
does  not  feel  that  to  have  seen  these,  though  but  as  Gil  Bias  saw  the  festivities  of  his 
actors,  from  the  sideboard  and  behind  the  chair,  would  have  beer  .riumph  for  the  earth- 
lier  feelings  of  his  old  age  to  recall  ?  What,  then,  must  it  have  been  to  have  seen  them  as 
thou  didst  see — (thou.  the  deceased  and  the  forgotten  !  )— seen  them  from  the  height  of  thy 
youth,  and  power,  and  rank  (for  early  wert  thou  keeper  to  a  public),  and  reckless  spirits, 
and  lusty  capacities  of  joy  ?  What  pleasures  where  sense  lavished  its  uncounted  varie- 
ties ?  What  reveilings  where  wine  was  the  least  excitement? 

Let  the  scene  shift.     How  stirring  is  the  change  !     Triumph,  and  glitter,  and  conquest  ! 


most  wonderful  events  which  the  world,  thy  world,  ever  knew^of  these  was  it  not  indeed, 
and  dazzlingly  thine, 

"  To  share  the  triumph  and  partake  the  gale  ?  " 

Let  the  scene  shift— Manhood  is  touched  by  Age  ;  but  Lust  is  "  heeled  "  by  Luxury,  and 
Pomp  is  the  heir  of  Pleasure  ;  gewgaws  and  gaud,  instead  of  glory,  surround,  rejoice,  and 
flatter  thee  to  the  last.  There  rise  thy  buildings — there  lie  secret  but  gorgeous,  the  taber- 
nacles of  thine  ease  ;  and  the  earnings  of  thy  friends,  and  the  riches  of  the  people  whom 
they  plunder,  are  waters  to  thine  imperial  whirlpool.  Thou  art  lapped  in  ease  as  is  a  silk- 
worm, and  profusion  flows  from  thy  high  and  unseen  asylum  as  the  rain  poureth  from  a 
cloud.  Much  didst  thou  do  to  beautify  chimney-tops-  much  to  adorn  the  snuggeries  where 
thou  didst  dwell  ;  thieving  with  thee  took  a  substantial  shape,  and  the  robberies  of  the  pub- 
lic passed  into  a  metempsychosis  of  mortar,  and  became  public-houses.  So  there  and  thus, 
building  and  planning,  didst  thou  spin  out  thy  latter  yarn,  till  Death  came  upon  thee  ;  and 
when  we  look  around,  lo  !  thy  brother  was  on  thy  hearth.  And  thy  parasites,  and  thy  com- 
rades, and  thine  ancient  pals,  and  thy  portly  blowens,  they  made  a  murmur,  and  they 
packed  up  their  goods — but  they  turned  ere  they  departed,  and  they  would  have  worshipped 
thy  brother  as  they  worshipped  thee  ;  but  he  would  not  !  And  thy  sign-post  is  gone  and 
mouldered  already;  and  to  the  "  Jolly  Angler"  has  succeeded  the  Jolly  Tar  !  And 
thy  picture  is  disappearing  fast  from  the  print-shops,  and  thy  name  from  the  mouths  of 
men  !  And  thy  brother,  whom  no  one  praised  while  thou  didst  live,  is  on  a  steeple  of  pan- 
egyric built  above  the  churchyard  that  contains  thy  grave.  Oh  !  shifting  and  volatile 
hearts  of  men  !  Who  would  be  keeper  of  a  Public?  Who  dispense  the  wines  and  the 
juices  that  gladden  when,  the  moment  the  pulse  of  the  hand  ceases,  the  wine  and  the  juices 
are  forgotten  ? 

To  History — for  thy  name  will  be  preserved  in  that  record,  which,  whether  it  be  the  Cal- 
endar of  Newgate  or  of  Nations,,  telleth  us  alike  how  men  suffer,  and  sin,  and  perish— to 
History  we  leave  the  sum  and  balance  of  thy  merits  and  thy  faults.  The  sins  that  were 
thine  were  those  of  the  man  to  whom  pleasure  is  all  in  all :  thou  wert,  from  root  to  branch, 
sap  and  in  heart,  what  moralists  term  the  libertine  ;  hence  the  light  wooing,  the  quick  de- 
sertion, the  broken  faith,  the  organized  perfidy,  that  manifested  thy  bearings  to  those 

Nor  will  any  of  these  trees  thou  didst  cultivate  follow  thee,  the  short-lived  lord,— save  the 
cypress. 

t  Chiefs  for  the  victory  fight— for  chiefs  the  soldiers. 


NOTE.  407 

gentler  creatures  who  called  thee—"  Gentleman  George."  Never,  to  one  solitary  woman, 
until  the  last  dull  flame  of  thy  dotage,  didst  thou  so  behave  as  to  give  no  foundation  to 
complaint,  and  no  voice  to  wrong.  But  who  shall  say  be  honest  to  one,  but  laugh  at  per- 
fidy to  another?  Who  shall  wholly  confine  treachery  to  one  sex,  if  to  that  sex  he  hold 
treachery  no  offence  ?  So  in  thee,  as  in  all  thy  tribe,  there  was  a  laxness  of  principle,  an 
insincerity  of  faith,  even  unto  men  :  thy  friends,  when  occasion  suited,  thou  couldst  for- 
sake ;  and  thy  luxuries  were  dearer  to  thee  than  justice  to  those  who  supplied  them.  Men 
who  love  and  live  for  pleasure  as  thou  are  usually  good-natured  ;  for  their  devotion  to 
pleasure  arises  from  the  strength  of  their  constitution,  and  the  strength  of  their  constitution 
preserves  them  from  the  irritations  of  weaker  nerves  ;  so  wert  thou  good-natured,  and  often 
generous  ;  and  often  with  thy  generosity  didst  thou  unite  a  delicacy  that  showed  thou  liadst 
an  original  and  a  tender  sympathy  with  men.  But  as  those  who  pursue  pleasure  are  above 
all  others  impatient  of  interruption,  so  to  such  as  interfered  with  thy  main  pursuit,  thou 
didst  testify  a  deep,  a  lasting,  and  a  revengeful  anger.  Yet  lei  not  such  vices  of  temper- 
ament be  too  severely  judged  !  For  to  thee  were  given  man's  two  rnont  persuasive  tempters, 
physical  and  moral — Health  and  Power !  Thy  talents,  such  as  they  were — and  they  were 
the  talents  of  a  man  of  the  world— misled  rather  than  guided  thee,  for  they  gave  thy  mind 
that  demi-philosophy,  that  indifference  to  exalted  motives  which  is  generally  found  in  a 
clever  rake.  Thy  education  was  wretched  ;  thou  hadst  a  smattering  of  Horace,  but  thou 
couldst  not  write  English,  and  thy  letters  betray  that  thou  wert  wofully  ignorant  of  logic. 
The  fineness  of  thy  taste  has  been  exaggerated  ;  thou  wert  unacquainted  with  the  noble- 
ness of  simplicity  ;  thy  idea  of  a  whole  was  grotesque  and  over-loaded,  and  thy  fancy  in 
details  was  gaudy  and  meretricious.  But  thou  hadst  thy  hand  constantly  in  the  public 
purse,  and  thou  hadst  plans  and  advisers  for  ever  before  thee  ;  mort  than  all,  thou  didst  find 
the  houses  in  that  neighborhood  wherein  thou  didst  build, so  preternaturally  hideous  that  thou 
didst  require  but  little  science  to  be  less  frightful  in  thy  creations.  If  thou  didst  not  im- 
prove thy  native  village  and  thy  various  homes  with  a  solid,  a  lofty,  and  a  noble  taste, 
thou  didst  nevertheless  very  singularly  improve.  And  thy  posterity,  in  avoiding  the  faults 
of  thy  masonry,  will  be  grateful  for  the  effects  of  thy  ambition.  The  same  demi-philoso- 
phy, which  influenced  thee  in  private  life,  exercised  a  far  benigner  and  happier  power  over 
dice  in  public.  Thou  wert  not  idly  vexatious  in  vestries,  nor  ordinarily  tyrannic  in  thy 
parish  ;  if  thou  wert  ever  arbitrary,  it  was  only  when  thy  pleasure  was  checked,  or  thy 
vanity  wounded.  At  other  times,  thou  didst  leave  events  to  their  legitimate  course,  so  that 
in  thy  latter  years  thou  wert  justly  popular  in  thy  parish  ;  and  in  thy  grave,  thy  great  good 
fortune  will  outshine  thy  few  bad  qualities,  and  men  will  say  of  thee  with  a  kindly,  nor  an 
erring  judgment,— "  In  private  life  he  was  not  worse  than  the  Rufflers  who  came  to  this 
bar  ;  in  public  life  he  was  better  than  those  who  kept  a  public  before  him."— Hark  !  those 
huzzas  !  what  is  the  burthen  of  that  chorus  ? — Oh,  grateful  and  never  time-serving  Britons, 
have  ye  modified  already  for  another  the  song  ye  made  so  solely  in  honor  of  Gentleman 
George  ;  and  must  we,  lest  we  lose  the  custom  of  the  public,  and  the  good  things  of  the 
taproom,  must  we  roar  with  throats  yet  hoarse  with  our  fervor  for  the  old  words,  our 
ardor  for  the  new  ? 

"  Here's  to  Mariner  Bill,  God  bless  him  ! 
God  bless  him  ! 
God  bless  him ! 
Here's  to  Mariner  Bill,  God  bless  him' 


;TO  M  L  I  N  S  O  N  I  A  N  A; 


OF   THE  CELEBRATED 

AUGUSTUS     TOMLINSON, 

PROFESSOR   OF   MORAL   PHILOSOPHY   IN  THE   UNIVERSITY   OF 

ADDRESSED  TO  HIS  PUPILS 

AND  COMPRISING 

I. 

MAXIMS   ON   THE    POPULAR   ART   OF   CHEATING,  ILLUSTRATED    BY  TBN   CHARACTERS,    BEINd 

AN   INTRODUCTION   TO  THAT  NOBLE   SCIENCE,  BY   WHICH    EVERY 

MAN    MAY    BECOME    HIS    OWN    ROGUE. 

II. 
BRACHYLOGIA  ;   OR    ESSAYS,    CRITICAL,   SENTIMENTAL,    MORAL,    AND   ORIGINAL. 


INTRODUCTION. 


HAVING  lately  been  travelling  in  Germany,  I  spent  some  time  at  .that  Uni- 
versity in  which  Augustus  Tomlinson  presided  as  Professor  of  Moral  Phil- 
osophy. I  found  that  that  great  man  died,  after  a  lingering  illness,  in  the 
beginning  of  the  year  1822,  perfectly  resigned  to  his  fate,  and  conversing, 
even  on  his  death-bed,  on  the  divine  mysteries  of  Ethical  Philosophy.  Not- 
withstanding the  little  peccadilloes,  to  which  I  have  alluded  in  the  latter 
pages  of  Paul  Clifford,  and  which  his  pupils  deemed  it  advisable  to  hide  from 
"  The  gaudy,  babbling,  and  remorseless  day," 

his  memory  was  slill  held  in  a  tender  veneration.  Perhaps,  as  in  the  case  of 
the  illustrious  Burns,  the  faults  of  a  great  man  endear  to  you  his  genius.  In 
his  latter  clays  the  PROFESSOR  was  accustomed  to  wear  a  light-green  silk 
dressing-gown,  and,,as  he  was  perfectly  bald,  a  little  black  velvet  cap  ;  his 
small-clothes  were  pepper  and  salt.  These  interesting  facts  I  learned  from 
one  of  his  pupils.  His  old  age  was  consumed  in-  lectures,  in  conversation, 
and  i«  the  composition  of  the  little  morceauxoi  wisdom  we  present  to  the 
public.  In  these  essays  and  maxims,  short  as  they  are,  he  seems  to  have 
concentrated  the  wisdom  of  his  industrious  and  honorable  life.  With  great 
difficulty  I  procured  from  his  executors  the  MSS.  which  were  then  preparing 
for  the  German  press.  A  valuable  consideration  induced  those  gentlemen  to 
become  philanthropic,  and  to  consider  the  inestimable  blessings  they  would 
confer  upon  this  country  by  suffering  me  to  give  the  following  essays  to  the 
light,  in  their  native  and  English  dress,  on  the  same  day  whereon  they  appear 
in  Germany  in  the  graces  of  foreign  disguise. 

At  an  age  when,  while  Hypocrisy  stalks,  simpers,  sidles,  struts,  and  hobbles 
through  the  country.  Truth,  also  begins  to  watch  her  adversary  in  every  move- 
ment, I  cannot  but  think  these  lessons  of  Augustus  Tomlinson  peculiarly 
well-timed.  I  add  them  as  a  fitting  Appendix  to  a  Novel  that  may  not  inap- 
propriately be  termed  a  Treatise  on  Social  Frauds,  a«d  if  they  contain  within 
them  that  evidence  of  diligent  attention  and  that  principle  of  good,  in  which 
the  satire  of  Vice  is  only  the  germ  of  its  detection,  they  may  not,  perchance, 
pass  wholly  unnoticed  ;  nor  be  even  condemned  to  that  hasty  reading  in 
which  the  Indifference  of  to-day  is  but  the  prelude  to  the  Forgetfulness  of 
to-morrow. 


41* 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

MAXIMS  ON  THE  POPULAR  ART  OF  CHEATING,  illustrated  by  Ten 
Characters  ;  being  an  Introduction  to  that  Noble  Science,  by  which 
every  Man  may  become  his  own  Rogue  .  .  .  .  .413 

BRACHYLOGIA  : 

On  the  Morality  taught  by  the  Rich  to  the  Poor        .         .        .  420 

Emulation          . .  420 

Caution  against  the  Scoffers  of  "Humbug"     ....  421 

Popular  Wrath  at  Individual  Imprudence 421 

Dum  defluat  A  tun  is         ...          ...  421 

Sclf-Glorifiers 421 

Thought  on  Fortune 422 

Wit  and  Truth .         .  422 

Auto-theology          .         .         .         .         .  •       .         .        .         .  422 

Glorious  Constitution  .........  422 

Answer  to  the  Popular  Cant  that  Goodness  in  a  Statesman  is  better 

than  Ability 422 

Common  Sense        ......                  .         .  422 

Love,  and  Writers  on  Love 423 

The  Great  Entailed 423 

The  Regeneration  of  a  Knave      .         .         .        .        ,        .         .  424 

Style 424 


413 


MAXIMS  ON   THE  POPULAR  ART   OF   CHEATING, 

ILLUSTRATED  BY  TEN  CHARACTERS  ; 

BEING    AN    INTRODUCTION   TO  THAT   NOBLE  SCIENCE,    BY   WHICH     EVERY     MAM    MAY   BECOME 
HIS   OWN   ROGUE. 

"  Set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief." — Proverb. 
I. 

WHENEVER  you  are  about  to  utter  something  astonishingly  false,  always 
begin  with,  "  It  is  an  acknowledged  fact,"  etc.  Sir  Robert  Filmer  was  a 
master  of  this  method  of  writing.  Thus  with  what  a  solemn  face  that  great 
man  attempted  to  cheat  !  "  It  is  a  truth  undeniable  that  there  cannot  be  any 
multitude  of  men  whatsoever,  either  great  or  small,  etc  , — but  that  in  the 
same  multitude  there  is  one  man  amongst  them  that  in  nature  hath  a  right 
to  be  King  of  all  the  rest — as  being  the  next  heir  to  Adam  !  " 

II. 

When  you  want  something  from  the  public,  throw  the  blame  of  the  asking 
on  the  most  sacred  principle  you  can  find.  A  common  beggar  can  read  you 
exquisite  lessons  on  this  the  most  important  maxim  in  the  art  of  popular 
cheating.  "  For  the  love  of  God,  sir,  a  penny  !  " 

HI. 

Whenever  on  any  matter,  moral,  sentimental,  or  political,  you  find  your- 
self utterly  ignorant,  talk  immediately  of  "  The  Laws  of  Nature."  As  those 
laws  are  written  nowhere,  *  they  are  known  by  nobody.  Should  any  ask  you 
how  you  happen  to  know  such  or  such  a  doctrine  as  the  dictate  of  Nature, 
clap  your  hand  to  your  heart  and  say,  "  Here  !  " 

IV. 

Yield  to  a  man's  tastes,  and  he  will  yield  to  your  interests. 

v. 

When  you  talk  to  the  half-wise,  twaddle  ;  when  you  talk  to  the  ignorant, 
brag  ;  when  you  talk  to  the  sagacious,  look  very  humble  and  ask  their 
opinion. 

VI. 

Always  bear  in  mind,  my  beloved  pupils,  that  the  means  of  livelihood  de- 
pend not  on  the  virtues,  but  the  vices  of  others.  The  lawyer,  the  statesman, 
the  hangman,  the  physician,  are  paid  by  our  sins  ;  nay,  even  the  commoner 
professions,  the  tailor,  ihe  coachmaker,  the  upholsterer,  the  wine  merchant, 
draw  their  fortunes,  if  not  their  existence,  from  those  smaller  vices — our 
foibles.  Vanity  is  the  figure  prefixed  to  the  ciphers  of  Necessity.  Where- 
fore, O  my  beloved  pupils  !  never  mind  what  a  man's  virtues  are  ;  waste  no 
time  in  learning  them.  Fasten  at  once  on  his  infirmities.  Do  to  the  One 
as,  were  you  an  honest  man,  you  would  do  to  the  Many.  This  is  the  way  to 
be  a  rogue  individually,  as  a  lawyer  is  a  rogue  professionally.  Knaves  are 
like  critics  \ — "  flies  that  feed  on  the  sore  part,  and  would  have  nothing  to 
live  on  were  the  body  in  health."  \ 

*  Locke.  t  Nullum  simile  est  quod  idem. — Editor.  $  Taller. 


414  TOMLINSONIANA. 

VII. 

Every  man  finds  it  desirable  to  have  tears  in  his  eyes  at  times — one  ha«  a 
sympathy  with  humid  lids.  Providence  hath  beneficently  provided  for  this 
want,  and  given  to  every  man,  in  Its  divine  forethought,  misfortunes  painful 
to  recall.  Hence,  probably,  those  human  calamities  which  the  atheist  rails 
against !  Wherefore,  when  you  are  uttering  some  affecting  sentiment  to  your 
intended  dupe,  think  of  the  greatest  misfortune  you  ever  had  in  your  life  ; 
habit  will  soon  make  the  association  of  tears  and  that  melancholy  remem- 
brance constantly  felicitous.  I  knew,  my  dear  p.ipils,  a  most  intelligent 
Frenchman  who  obtained  a  charming  legacy  from  an  old  poet,  by  repeating 
the  bard's  verses  with  streaming  eyes.  "  How  were  you  able  to  weep  at 
will  ?  "  asked  I  (I  was  y  ung  then,  my  puoils).  "  Je  pensois"  answered  he, 
"  h,  man pauvre  fere  qui  estmort."  *  The  union  of  sentiment  with  the  ability 
of  swindling  made  that  Frenchman  a  most  fascinating  creature  ! 

VIII. 

Never  commit  the  error  of  the  overshrewd,  and  deem  human  nature  worse 
than  it  is.  Human  Nature  is  so  damnably  good,  that  if  it  were  not  for  hu- 
man Art  we  knaves  could  not  live.  The  primary  elements  of  a  man's  mind 
do  not  sustain  us — it  is  what  he  owes  to  "  the  pains  taken  with  his  educa- 
tion," and  "  the  blessings  of  civilized  society  "  ! 

IX. 

Whenever  you  doubt,  my  pupils,  whether  your  man  be  a  quack  or  not, 
decide  the  point  by  seeing  if  your  man  be  a  positive  asserter.  Nothing  in- 
dicates imposture  like  confidence,  Volney  f  saith  well,  "  that  the  most  cele- 
brated of  charlatans  \  and  the  boldest  of  tyrants  begins  his  extraordinary  tis- 
sue of  lies  by  these  words,  '  There  is  no  doubt  in  this  book '  !  " 

x. 

There  is  one  way  of  cheating  people  peculiar  to  the  British  Isles,  and 
which,  my  pupils,  1  earnestly  recommend  you  to  import  hither — cheating  by 
subscription.  People  like  to  be  plundered  in  company  ;  dupery  then  grows 
into  the  spirit  of  party.  Thus  one  quack  very  gravely  requested  persons  to 
fit  up  a  ship  for  him  and  send  him  rouwl  the  world  as  its  captain  to  make 
discoveries,  and  another  patriotically  suggested  that  ,£10,000  should  be  sub- 
scribed— for  what  ? — to  place  him  in  Parliament  !  Neither  of  th'-se  fellows 
could  have  screwed  an  individual  out  of  a  shilling  had  he  asked  him  for  it  in 
a  corner  ;  but  a  printed  list,  with  "  His  Royal  Highness"  at  the  top,  plays 
the  devil  with  English  guineas.  A  subscription  for  individuals  may  be  con- 
sidered a  society  for  the  ostentatious  encouragement  of  idleness,  impudence, 
beggary,  imposture, — and  other  public  virtues  ! 

XI. 

Whenever  you  read  the  life  of  a  great  man,  I  mean  a  man  eminently  suc- 
cessful, you  will  perceive  all  the  qualities  given  to  him  are  the  qualities 
necessary  even  to  a  mediocre  rogue.  "  He  possessed,"  saith  the  bio- 
grapher, "the  greatest  address  [viz.  the  faculty  of  wheedling]  ;  the  most 
admirable  courage  [viz.  the  faculty  of  bullying]  ;  the  most  noble  fortitude 
[viz.  the  faculty  of  beating  to  be  bullied]  ;  the  must  singular  versatility  [viz. 
the  faculty  of  saying  one  thing  to  one  man,  and  its  reverse  to  another]  ;  and 
the  most  wonderful  command  over  the  mind  of  his  contemporaries  [viz.  the 
faculty  of  victimizing  their  purses  or  seducing  their  actions]."  Wherefore, 
if  luck  cast  you  in  humble  life,  assiduously  study  the  biographies  of  the 

*  I  used  to  think  of  my  poor  father  who  is  dead, 
t  Lectures  on  History.  +  Mahomet, 


TOMLINSONIANA.  415 

great,  in  order  to  accomplish  you  as  a  rogue  ;  if  in  the  more  elevated  range 
of  society,  be  thoroughly  versed  in  the  lives  of  the  roguish, — so  shall  you  fit 
yourself  to  be  eminent  ! 

XII. 

The  hypocrisy  of  virtue,  my  beloved  pupils,  is  a  little  out  of  fashion  now- 
adays ;  it  is  sometimes  better  to  affect  the  hypocrisy  of  vice.  Appear  gener- 
ously profligate,  and  swear  wiih  a  hearty  face,  that  you  do  not  pretend  to  be 
better  than  the  generality  of  your  neighbors.  Sincerity  is  not  less  a  cover- 
ing than  lying  ;  a  frieze  great-coat  wraps  you  as  well  as  a  Spanish  cloak. 

XIII. 

When  you  are  about  to  execute  some  great  plan,  and  to  defraud  a  number 
of  persons,  let  the  first  one  or  two  of  the  alloted  number  be  the  cleverest, 
shrewdest  fellows  you  can  find.  You  have  then -a  reference  that  will  alone 
dupe  ihe  rest  of  the  world.  "  That  Mr.  Lynx  is  satisfied,"  will  amply  suffice 
to  satisfy  Mr.  Mole  of  the  honesty  of  your  intentions  !  Nor  are  shrewd 
men  the  hardest  to  take  in  ;  they  rely  on  their  strength  ;  invulnerable  heroes 
are  necessarily  the  bravest.  Talk  to  them  in  a  business-like  manner,  and 
refer  your  design  at  once  to  their  lawyer.  My  friend,  John  Shamberry,  was 
a  model  in  this  grand  stroke  of  art.  He  swindled  twelve  people  to  the  tune 
of  some  thousands,  with  no  other  trouble  than  it  first  cost  him  to  swindle — 
whom  do  you  think  ?  the  Secretary  to  the  Society  for  the  Suppression  of 
Swindling  ! 

XIV. 

Divide  your  arts  into  two  classes  :  those  which  cost  you  little  labor — 
those  which  cost  much.  The  first, — flattery,  attention,  answering  letters 
by  return  of  post,  walking  across  a  street  to  oblige  the  man  you  intend  to 
ruin  ;  all  these  you  must  never  neglect.  The  least  man  is  worth  gaining  at 
a  small  cost.  And  besides,  while  you  are  serving  yourself,  you  are  also 
obtaining  the  character  of  civility,  diligence,  and  good  nature.  But  the  arts 
which  cost  you  much  labor — a  long  subservience  to  one  testy  individual  ; 
aping  the  semblance  of  a  virtue,  a  quality,  or  a  branch  of  learning  which  you 
do  not  possess,  to  a  person  difficult  to  blind — all  these,  never  begin  except 
for  great  ends,  worth  not  only  the  loss  of  time,  but  the  chance  of  detection. 
Great  pains  for  small  gains  is  the  maxim  of  the  miser.  The  rogue  should 
have  more  gratideur  d 'dine  !* 

XV. 

Always  forgive. 

XVI. 

If  a  man  owe  you  a  sum  of  money — (pupils  though  you  be  of  mine,  you 
may  once  in  your  lives  be  so  silly  as  to  lend) — and  you  find  it  difficult  to 
get  it  back,  appeal,  not  to  his  justice,  but  to  his  charity.  The  components 
of  justice  flatter  few  men  !  Who  likes  to  submit  to  an  inconvenience 
because  he  ought  to  do  it  ? — without  praise,  without  even  self-gratulation  ? 
But  charity,  my  dear  friends,  tickles  up  human  ostentation  deliciously. 
Charity  implies  superiority  ;  and  the  feeling  of  superiority  is  most  grateful 
to  social  nature.  Hence  the  commonness  of  charity,  in  proportion  to  other 
virtues,  all  over  the  world  ;  and  hence  you  will  especially  note,  that  in 
pioportion  a«  people  are  haughty  and  arrogant  will  they  laud  alms-giving  and 
encourage  charitable  institutions. 

XVII. 

Your  genteel  rogues  do  not  fufficiently  observe  the  shrewdness  of  the 
*  Greatness  of  soul. 


416  TOMLINSONIANA. 

vulgar  ones.  The  actual  beggar  takes  advantage  of  every  sore  ;  but  the 
moral  swindler  is  unpardonably  dull  as  to  the  happiness  of  a  physical  infirm- 
ity. To  obtain  a  favor — neglect  no  method  that  may  allure  compassion.  I 
knew  a  worthy  curate,  who  obtained  two  livings  by  the  felicity  of  a  hectic 
cough  ;  and  a  younger  brother  who  subsisted  for  ten  years  on  his  family  by 
virtue  of  a  slow  consumption. 

XVIII. 

When  you  want  to  possess  yourself  of  a  small  sum,  recollect  that  the 
small  sum  be  put  into  juxtaposition  with  a  great.  I  do  not  express 
myself  clearly — take  an  example.  In  London  there  are  sharpers  who  adver- 
tise .£70,000  to  be  advanced  at  four  per  cent.,  principals  only  conferred  with. 
The  gentleman  wishing  for  such  a  sum  on  mortgage,  goes  to  see  the  adver- 
tiser ;  the  advertiser  says  he  must  run  down  and  look  at  the  properly  on 
which  the  money  is  to  be  advanced  ;  his  journey  and  expenses  will  cost  him 
a  mere  trifle — say  twenty  guineas,  Let  him  speak  confidently — let  the 
gentleman  very  much  want  the  money  at  the  interest  stated,  and  three  to 
one  but  our  sharper  gets  the  twenty  guineas,  so  paltry  a  sum  in  comparison 
to  ;£  70.000,  though  so  serious  a  sum  had  the  matter  related  to  half-pence  ! 

xix. 

Lord  Coke  has  said,  "  To  trace  an  error  to  its  fountain-head  is  to  refute 
it."  Now,  my  young  pupils,  I  take  it  for  granted  that  you  are  interested 
in  the  preservation  of  error  ;  you  do  not  wish  it,  therefore,  to  be  traced  to 
its  fountain-head.  Whenever,  then,  you  see  a  sharp  fellow  tracking  it  up 
you  have  two  ways  of  settling  the  matter.  You  may  say  with  a  smile, 
"  Nay,  now,  sir,  you  grow  speculative — I  admire  your  ingenuity";  or  else 
look  grave,  color  up,  and  say — "  I  fancy,  s>r,  there  is  no  warrant  for  this 
assertion  in  the  most  sacred  of  all  authorises  !  "  The  Devil  can  quote 
Scripture,  you  know,  and  a  very  sensible  devil  it  is  too  i 

xx. 

Rochefoucauld  has  said,"  The  hate  of  favorites  is  nothing  else  but  the  love 
of  favor. "  The  idea  is  a  little  cramped  ;  the  hate  we  bear  to  any  man  is  only 
the  result  of  our  love  for  some  good  which  we  imagine  he  possesses,  or  which, 
being  in  our  possession,  we  imagine  he  has  attacked.  Thus  envy,  the  most 
ordinary  species  of  hate,  arises  from  our  value  for  the  glory,  or  the  plate, 
or  the  content  we  behold  ;  and  revenge  is  born  from  our  regard  for  our  fame 
that  has  been  wounded,  or  our  acres  molested,  or  our  rights  invaded.  But 
the  mi-st  noisy  of  all  hatreds  is  hatred  for  the  rich,  from  love  for  the  riches. 
Look  well  on  the  poor  devil  who  is  always  railing  at  coaches  and  four ! 
Book  him  as  a  man  to  be  bribed  ! 

XXI. 

My  beloved  pupils,  few  have  yet  sufficiently  studied  the  art  by  which  the 
practice  of  jokes  becomes  subservient  to  the  science  of  swindlers.  The 
heart  of  an  inferior  is  always  fascinated  by  a  jest.  Men  know  this  in  the 
knavery  of  elections.  Know  it  now,  my  pupils,  in  the  knavery  of  life  ! 
When  you  slap  your  cobbler  so  affectionately  on  the  back  it  is  your  own 
fault  if  you  do  not  slap  your  purpose  into  him  at  the  same  time.  Note 
how  Shak.'peare  (whom  study  night  and  day — no  man  hath  better  ex- 
pounded the  mysteries  of  roguery  !)  causes  his  grandest  and  most  accom- 
plished villain,  Richard  III.,  to  address  his  good  friends,  the  murderers,  with 
a  jocular  panegyric  on  that  hardness  of  heart  on  which,  doubtless,  those  poor 
fellows  most  piqued  themselves — 

"  Your  eyes  drop  millstones,  where  /cols'  eyes  drop  tears— 
I  like  you,  lads  I " 


TOMLINSONIANA.  417 

Can't  you  fancy  the  kr. owing  grin  with  which  the  dogs  received  this  compli- 
ment, and  the  little  sly  punch  in  the  stomach  with  which  Richard  dropped 
those  loving  words,  "  I  like  you,  lads  !" 

XXII. 

As  good-nature  is  the  characteristic  of  the  dupe,  so  should  good  temper  be 
that  of  the  knave  ;  the  two  fit  into  each  other  like  joints.  Happily,  good- 
nature is  a  Narcissus,  and  falls  in  love  with  its  own  likeness.  And  good- 
temper  is  to  good-nature  what  the  Florimel  of  snow  was  to  the  Florimel  of 
flesh — an  exact  likeness  made  of  the  coldest  materials. 

XXIII. 
BEING   THE   PRAISE  OF   KNAVERY. 

A  knave  is  a  philosopher,  though  a  philosopher  is  not  necessarily  a  knave. 
What  hath  a  knave  to  do  with  passions.  Every  irregular  desire  he  must  sup- 
press ;  every  foible  he  must  weed  out  ;  his  whole  life  is  spent  in  the  acquisi- 
tion of  knowledge  :  for  what  is  knowledge  ? — the  discovery  of  human  errors  ! 
He  is  the  only  man  always  consistent,  yet  ever  examining  ;  he  knows  but  one 
end,  yet  explores  every  means  ;  danger,  ill-repute,  all  that  terrify  other  men, 
daunt  not  him  ;  he  braves  all,  but  is  saved  Irom  all  :  for  I  hold  that  a  knave 
ceaseth  to  be  the  knave — he  hath  parsed  into  the  fool — the  moment  mischief 
befalls  him.  He  professes  the  art  of  cheating  ;  but  the  art  of  cheating  is  to 
cheat  without  peril.  He  is  feres  et  rotundus,  strokes  fly  from  the  lubricity  of 
his  polish,  and  the  shiftings  of  his  circular  formation.  He  who  is  insensible 
of  the  glory  of  his  profession,  who  is  open  only  to  the  profit,  is  no  disciple  of 
mine.  I  hold  of  knavery,  as  Plato  hath  said  of  virtue — "  Could  it  be  seen  in- 
carnate, it  would  beget  a  personal  adoration  !  "  None  but  those  who  are  in- 
spired by  a  generous  enthusiasm  will  benefit  by  the  above  maxims  ;  nor  (and 
here  I  warn  you  so'emnly  from  the  sacred  ground,  till  your  head  be  uncov- 
ered, and  your  feet  be  bared  in  the  awe  of  veneration),  enter  with  profit  upon 
the  following  descriptions  of  character — that  Temple  of  the  Ten  Statues — 
wherein  I  have  stored  and  consecrated  the  most  treasured  relics  of  my 
travelled  thoughts  and  my  collected  experience. 

TEN  CHARACTERS. 

I. 

THE  mild,  irresolute,  good-natured,  and  indolent  man.  These  qualities 
are  accompanied  with  good  feelings,  but  no  principles.  The  want  of  firmness 
evinces  also  the  want  of  any  peculiar  or  deeply-rooted  system  of  thought.  A 
man  conning  a  single  and  favorite  subject  of  meditation,  grows  wedded  to 
one  or  the  other  of  the  opinions  on  which  he  revolves.  A  man  universally 
irresolute,  has  generally  led  a  desultory  life,  and  never  given  his  attention 
long  together  to  one  thing  ;  this  is  a  man  most  easy  to  cheat,  my  beloved 
friends  ;  you  cheat  him  even  with  his  eyes  open  :  indolence  is  dearer  to  him 
than  all  things,  and  if  you  get  him  alone  and  put  a  question  to  him  point 
blank — he  cannot  answer,  No. 

n. 

The  timid,  suspicious,  selfish,  and  cold  man.  Generally,  a  character  of 
this  description  is  an  excellent  man  of  business,  and  would,  at  first  sight, 
seem  to  baffle  the  most  ingenious  swindler.  But  you  have  one  hope — I  have 
rarely  found  it  deceive  me — this  man  is  usually  ostentatious.  A  cold,  a  fear- 
ful, yet  a  worldly  person,  has  ever  an  eye  upon  others  ;  he  notes  the  effect 
certain  things  produce  on  them  ;  he  is  anxious  to  learn  their  opinions,  that  he 
may  not  transgress  ;  he  likes  to  know  what  the  world  say  of  him  ;  nay,  his 


418  TOMLINSONIANA. 

timidity  makes  him  anxious  to  repose  his  selfishness  on  their  good  report. 
Hence  he  grows  ostentatious,  likes  that  effect  which  is  favorably  talked  of, 
and  that  show  which  wins  consideration.  At  him  on  this  point,  my  pupils  ! 

in. 

The  melancholy,  retired,  sensitive,  intellectual  character.  A  very  good 
subject  this  for  your  knaveries,  my  young  friends  ;  though  it  requires  great 
discrimination  and  delicacy.  This  character  has  a  considerable  portion  of 
morbid  suspicion  and  irritability  belonging  to  it — against  these  you  must 
guard — at  the  same  time,  its  prevalent  feature  is  a  powerful,  but  unacknowl- 
edged vanity.  It  is  generally  a  good  opinion  of  himself,  and  a  feeling  that 
he  is  not  appreciated  by  others,  that  makes  a  man  reserved  :  he  deems  himself 
unfit  for  the  world  because  of  the  delicacy  of  his  temperament,  and  the  want 
of  a  correspondent  sensibility  in  those  he  sees  !  This  is  your  handle  to  work 
on.  He  is  peculiarly  flattered,  too,  on  the  score  of  devotion  and  affection  ; 
he  exacts  in  love,  as  from  the  world — too  much.  He  is  a  Lara,  whose 
females  must  be  Medoras  :  and  even  his  male  friends  should  be  extremely  like 
Kaleds  !  Poor  man  !  you  see  how  easily  he  can  be  duped.  Mem. — Among 
persons  of  this  character  are  usually  found  those  oddities,  humors,  and  peculi- 
arities, which  are  each  a  handle.  No  man  lives  out  of  the  world  with  impunity 
to  the  solidity  of  his  own  character.  Every  new  outlet  to  the  humor  is  a  new 
inlet  to  the  heart. 

IV. 

The  bold,  generous,  frank,  and  affectionate  man, — usually  a  person  of 
robust  health.  His  constitution  keeps  him  in  spirits,  and  bis  spirits  in  cour- 
age and  in  benevolence.  He  is  obviously  not  a  hard  character,  my  good 
young  friends,  for  you  to  deceive  ;  for  he  wants  suspicion,  and  all  his  good 
qualities  lay  him  open  to  you.  But  beware  his  anger  when  he  finds  you  out  ! 
he  is  a  terrible  Othello  when  his  nature  is  once  stung.  Mem. — A  good  sort 
of  character  to  seduce  into  illegal  practices  :  makes  a  tolerable  traitor,  or  a 
capital  smuggler  :  you  yourselves  must  never  commit  any  illegal  offence  : 
ar'n't  there  cat's-paws  for  the  chestnuts?  As  all  laws  are  oppressions  (only 
necessary  and  often  sacred  oppressions,  which  you  need  not  explain  to  him), 
and  his  character  is  especially  hostile  to  oppression,  you  easily  seduce  the  per- 
son we  describe  into  braving  the  laws  of  his  country.  Yes  !  the  bold,  gener- 
ous, frank,  arid  affectionate  man,  has  only  to  be  born  in  humble  life  to  be 
sure  of  a  halter  ! 

V. 

The  bold,  selfish,  close,  giasping  man  will,  in  all  probability,  cheat  you, 
my  dear  friends.  For  such  a  character  makes  the  master-rogue,  the  stuff 
from  which  Nature  forms  a  Richard  the  Third.  You  had  better  leave  such 
a  man  quite  alone.  He  is  bad  even  to  serve.  He  breaks  up  his  tools  when 
he  has  done  with  them.  No,  you  can  do  nothing  with  him,  my  good 
young  man  ! 

VI. 

The  eating,  drinking,  unthoughtful,  sensual,  mechanical  man — the  ordi- 
nary animal.  Such  a  creature  has  cunning,  and  is  either  cowardly  or  fero- 
cious ;  seldom  in  these  qualities  he  preserves  a  medium.  He  is  not  by  anv 
means  easy  to  dupe.  Nature  defends  her  mental  brutes  by  the  thickness  of 
their  hide.  Win  his  mistress  if  possible  ;  she  is  the  best  person  to  manage 
him.  Such  creatures  are  the  natural  prey  of  artful  women  ;  their  very  sto- 
lidity covers  all  but  sensuality.  To  the  Samson — the  Delilah. 


TOMLINSONIANA.  419 

VII. 

The  gay,  deceitful,  shrewd,  polished,  able  man  ;  the  courtier,  the  man  of 
the  world.  In  public  and  stirring  life,  this  is  the  fit  antagonist — often  the 
successful  and  conquering  rival  of  Character  V.  You  perceive  a  man  like 
this  varies  so  greatly  in  intellect,  from  the  mere  butterfly  talent  to  the  rarest 
genius  ;  from  the  person  you  see  at  cards  to  the  person  you  see  in  cabinets — 

from  the to  the  Chesterfield — from  the  Chesterfield  to  the  Pericles — that  it 

is  difficult  to  give  you  an  exact  notion  of  the  weak  points  of  a  character  so 
various.  But  while  he  dupes  his  equals  and  his  superiors,  I  consider  him, 
my  attentive  pupils,  by  no  means  a  veiy  difficult  character  for  an  inferior  to 
dupe.  And  in  this  manner  you  must  go  about  it.  Do  not  aitempt  hypoc- 
risy ;  he  will  see  through  it  in  an  instant.  Let  him  think  you  at  once,  and 
at  first  sight,  a  rogue.  Be  candid  on  that  matter  yourself  :  but  let  him  think 
you  an  useful  rogue.  Serve  him  well  and  zealously  :  but  own  that  you  do  so, 
because  you  consider  your  interest  involved  in  this.  This  reasoning  satisfies 
him  ;  and  as  men  of  this  character  are  usually  generous,  he  will  acknowledge 
its  justice  by  throwing  you  plenty  of  sops,  and  stimulating  you  with  bounti- 
ful cordials.  Should  he  not  content  you  herein,  appear  contented  ;  and 
profit  in  betraying  him  (that  is  the  best  way  to  cheat  him),  not  by  his  failings, 
but  by  opportunity.  Watch  not  his  character,  but  your  time. 

VIII. 

The  vain,  arrogant,  brave,  amorous,  flashy  character.  This  sort  of  charac- 
ter we  formerly  attributed  to  the  French,  and  it  is  still  more  common  to  the 
Continent  than  that  beloved  island  which  1  shall  see  no  more  !  A  creature 
of  this  description  is  made  up  of  many  false  virtues  ;  above  others,  it  is  al- 
ways profuse  where  its  selfishness  is  appealed  to,  not  otherwise.  You  must 
find,  then,  what  pleases  it,  and  pander  to  its  tastes.  So  will  ye  cheat  it — 
or  ye  will  cheat  it  also  by  affecting  the  false  virtues  which  it  admires  itself — 
rouge  your  sentiments  highly,  and  let  them  strut  with  a  buskined  air  ;  thirdly, 
my  good  young  men,  ye  will  cheat  it  by  profuse  flattery,  and  by  calling  it  in 
especial,  "  the  mirror  of  chivalry." 

IX. 

The  plain,  sensible,  honest  man. — A  favorable,  but  not  elevated  specimen 
of  our  race.  This  character,  my  beloved  pupils,  you  may  take  in  once,  but 
never  twice.  Nor  can  you  take  in  such  a  man  as  a  stranger  ;  he  must  be 
your  friend,  or  relation,  or  have  known  intimately  some  part  of  your  family. 
A  man  of  this  character  is  always  open,  though  in  a  moderate  and  calm  de- 
gree, to  the  duties  and  ties  of  life.  He  will  always  do  something  to  serve 
his  friend,  his  brother,  or  the  man  whose  father  pulled  his  father  out  of  the 
Serpentine.  Affect  with  him  no  varnish  ;  exert  no  artifice  in  attempting  to 
obtain  his  assistance.  Candidly  state  your  wish  for  such  or  such  a  service — 
sensibly  state  your  pretensions — modestly  hint  at  your  gratitude.  So  may 
you  deceive  him  once,  then  leave  him  alone  for  ever  ! 

x. 

The  fond,  silly,  credulous  man  ;  all  impulse,  and  no  reflection  ! — How  my 
heart  swells  when  I  contemplate  this  excellent  character  !  What  a  Canaan  for 
you  does  it  present !  I  envy  you  launching  into  the  world  with  the  sanguine 
hope  of  finding  all  men  such  !  Delightful  enthusiasm  of  youth — would  that 
the  hope  could  be  realized  !  Here  is  the  veiy  incarnation  of  gullibility. 
You  have  only  to  make  him  love  you,  and  no  hedgehog  ever  sucked  egg  as 
you  can  suck  him.  Never  be  afraid  of  his  indignation  ;  go  to  him  ^igain 
and  aijain  ;  only  throw  yourself  on  his  neck  and  weep.  To  gull  him  once, 


420  TOMLINSONIANA. 

is  to  gull  him  always  ;  get  his  first  shilling,  and  then  calculate  what  you  will 
do  with  the  rest  of  his  fortune.  Never  desert  so  good  a  man  for  new  friends, 
that  would  be  ungrateful  in  you  !  And  take  with  you,  by  the  way,  my  good 
young  gentlemen,  this  concluding  maxim.  Men  are  like  lands  ;  you  will  get 
more  by  lavishing  all  your  labor  again  and  again  upon  the  easy,  than  by 
ploughing  up  new  ground  in  the  sterile  ! 

Legislators — wise — good — pious  men, — the  Tom  Thumbs  of  moral  science, 
who  make  giants  first,  and  then  kill  them  ;  *  you  think  the  above  lessons  vil- 
lainous :  I  honor  your  penetration  !  they  are  not  proofs  of  my  villainy,  but 
of  your  folly  !  Look  over  them  again,  and  you  will  see  that  they  are  de- 
signed to  show  that  while  ye  are  imprisoning,  transporting,  and  hanging 
thousands  every  day,  a  man  with  a  decent  modicum  of  cunning  might  prac- 
tise every  one  of  those  lessons  which  seem  to  you  so  heinous,  and  not  one  of 
your  laws  could  touch  him  ! 


BRACHYLOGIA  ;  OR,  ESSAYS, 
CRITICAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  MORAL,  AND  ORIGINAL, 

ADDRESSED   TO   HIS  PUPILS, 

BY  AUGUSTUS  TOMLINSON. 

The  irony  in  the  preceding  essays  is  often  lost  sight  of  in  the  present.  The  illness  of 
this  great  man,  which  happened  while  composing  these  little  gems,  made  him  perhaps  more 
in  earnest  than  when  in  robust  health. — Editor's  Note, 

ON  THE  MORALITY  TAUGHT  BY  THE  RICH  TO  THE  POOR. 
As  soon  as  the  urchin  pauper  can  totter  out  of  doors,  it  is  taught  to  pull 
off  its  hat,  and  pull  its  hair  to  the  quality.  "  A  good  little  boy,"  says  the 
squire  ;  '''there's  a  ha'penny  for  you."  The  good  little  boy  glows  with  pride. 
That  ha'penny  instils  deep  the  lesson  of  humility.  Now  goes  our  urchin  to 
school.  Then  comes  the  Sunday  teaching — before  church — which  enjoins 
the  poor  to  be  lowly,  and  to  honor  every  man  better  off  than  themselves.  A 
pound  of  honor  to  the  squire,  and  an  ounce  to  the  beadle.  Then  the  boy 
grows  up  ;  and  the  Lord  of  the  Manor  instructs  him  thus  :  "  Be  a  good 
boy,  Tom,  and  I'll  befriend  you  ;  tread  in  ihe  steps  of  your  father  ;  he  was 
an  excellent  man,  and  a  great  loss  to  the  parish  ;  he  was  a  very  civil,  hard- 
working, well-behaved  creature  ;  knew  his  station  ;  mind,  and  do  like 
him  ! "'  So  perpetual  hard  labor,  and  plenty  of  cringing,  make  the  ances- 
tral virtues  to  be  perpetuated  to  peasants  till  the  day  of  judgment  !  Another 
insidious  distillation  of  morality  is  conveyed  through  a  general  praise  of  the 
poor.  You  hear  false  friends  of  the  people,  who  call  themselves  Liberals, 
and  Tories,  who  have  an  idea  of  morals,  half-chivalric,  half-past  oral,  agree 
in  lauding  the  unfortunate  creatures  whom  they  keep  at  work  for  them.  But 
mark  the  virtues  the  poor  are  always  to  be  praised  for, — Industry,  Honesty, 
and  Content.  The  first  virtue  is  extolled  to  the  skies,  because  Industry 
gives  the  rich  everything  they  have  ;  the  second,  because  Honesty  prevents 
an  iota  of  the  said  everything  being  taken  away  again  ;  and  the  third,  be- 
cause Content  is  to  hinder  these  poor  devils  from  ever  objecting  to  a  lot  so 
comfortable  to  the  persons  who  profit  by  it.  This,  my  pupils,  is  the  morality 
taught  by  the  Rich  to  the  Poor  ! 

EMULATION. 

The  great  error  of  emulation  is  this, — we  emulate  effects  without  inquiring 
into  causes  ;  when  we  read  of  the  great  actions  of  a  man,  we  are  on  fire  to 
*He  made  the  giants  first,  and  then  he  killed  them.—  The  Tragedy  of  Tom  Thumb, 


TOMLINSONIANA.  421 

perform  the  same  exploits,  without  endeavoring  to  ascertain  the  precise  quali- 
ties which  enabled  the  man  we  imitate  to  commit  the  actions  we  admire- 
Could  we  discover  these,  how  often  might  we  discover  that  their  origin  was  a 
ceitain  temper  of  body,  a  certain  peculiarity  of  constitution,  and  that,  wish 
\ve  for  the  same  success,  we  should  be  examining  the  nature  of  our  bodies, 
rather  than  sharpening  the  faculties  of  our  minds  ;  should  use  dumb-bells, 
perhaps,  instead  of  books;  nay,  on  the  other  hand,  contract  some  grievous 
complaint,  rather  than  perfect  our  moral  salubrity.  Who  should  say  whether 
Alexander  would  have  been  a  hero,  had  his  neck  been  straight  ?  or  Boileau  a 
satirist,  had  he  never  been  pecked  by  a  turkey  ?  It  would  be  pleasant  to  see 
you,  my  beloved  pupils,  after  reading  "  Quintus  Curtius,"  twisting  each 
other's  throat ;  or,  fresh  from  Boileau,  hurrying  to  the  poultry-yard,  in  the 
hope  of  being  mutilated  into  the  performance  of  a  second  Lutrin. 
CAUTION  AGAINST  THE  SCOFFERS  OF  "  HUMBUG." 

My  beloved  pupils,  there  is  a  set  of  persons  in  the  world  daily  increasing, 
against  whom  you  must  be  greatly  on  your  guard  ;  there  is  a  fascination  about 
them.  They  are  people  who  declare  themselves  vehemently  opposed  to 
humbug;  fine,  liberal  fellows,  clear-sighted,  yet  frank.  When  these  senti- 
ments arise  from  reflection,  well  and  good,  they  are  the  best  sentiments  in 
the  world  ;  but  many  take  them  up  second-hand  ;  they  are  very  inviting  to 
the  indolence  of  the  mob  of  gentlemen,  who  see  the  romance  of  a  noble 
principle,  not  its  utility.  When  a  man  looks  at  everything  through  this 
dwarfing  philosophy,  everything  has  a  great  modicum  of  humbug.  You 
laugh  with  him  when  he  derides  the  humbug  in  religion,  the  humbug  in  poli- 
tics, the  humbug  in  love,  the  humbug  in  the  plausibilities  of  the  worid  ;  but 
you  may  cry,  my  dear  pupils,  when  he  derides  what  is  often  the  safest  of  all 
practically  to  deride, — the  humbug  in  common  honesty!  Men  are  honest 
from  religion,  wisdom,  prejudice,  habit,  fear,  and  stupidity  ;  but  the  few  only 
are  wise ;  and  the  persons  we  speak  of  deride  religion,  are  beyond  prejudice, 
unawed  by  habit,  too  indifferent  for  fear,  and  too  experienced  for  stupidity. 
POPULAR  WRATH  AT  INDIVIDUAL  IMPRUDENCE. 

You  must  know,  my  dear  young  friends,  that  while  the  appearance  of  mag- 
nanimity is  very  becoming  to  you,  and  so  forth,  it  will  get  you  a  great  deal 
of  ill-will,  if  you  attempt  to  practise  it  to  your  own  detriment.  Your  neigh- 
bors are  so  invariably,  though  perhaps  insensibly,  actuated  by  self-interest  * — 
self-interest  is  so  entirely,  though  every  twaddler  denies  it,  the  axis  of  the 
moral  worid,  that  they  fly  into  a  rage  with  him  who  seems  to  disregard  it. 
When  a  man  ruins  himself,  just  hear  the  abuse  he  receives  ;  his  neighbors 
take  it  as  a  personal  affront  ! 

DUM   DEFLUAT   AMNIS. 

One  main  reason  why  men  who  have  been  great  are  disappointed,  when 
they  retire  to  private  life,  is  this  :  memory  makes  a  chief  source  of  enjoyment 
to  those  who  cease  eagerly  to  hope  ;  but  the  memory  of  the  great  recalls  only 
that  public  life  which  has  disgusted  them.  Their  private  life  hath  slipped 
insensibly  away,  leaving  faint  traces  of  the  sorrow  or  the  joy  which  found 
them  too  busy  to  heed  the  simple  and  quiet  impressions  of  mere  domestic 
vicissitude. 

SELF-GLORIFIERS. 

Providence  seems  to  have  done  to  a  certain  set  of  persons,  who  always 
view  their  own  things  through  a  magnifying  medium  ;  deem  their  house  the 

*  Mr.  Tomlinson  is  wrong  here,  But  his  ethics  were  to<j  much  narrowed  to  Utilitarian 
principles.— EDIT. 


422  TOMLINSONIANA. 

best  in  the  world,  their  gun  the  truest,  their  very  pointer  a   miracle, — as 
Colonel  Hanger  suggested  to  economists  to  ck>,  viz.,  pioviue  their  servants 
each  with  a  pair  of  large  spectacles,  so  that  a  lark  might  appear  as  big  as 
a  fowl,  and  a  two-penny  loaf  as  large  as  quartern. 
THOUGHT   ON   FORTUNE. 

It  is  often  the  easiest  move  that  completes  the  game.  Fortune  is  like  the 
lady  whom  a  lover  earned  off  from  all  his  rivals  by  putting  an  additional 
lace  upon  his  liveries. 

WIT   AND   TRUTH. 

People  may  talk  about  fiction  being  the  source  of  fancy,  and  wit  being  at 
variance  with  truth  ;  now  some  of  the  wittiest  things  in  the  world  are  witty 
solely  from  iheir  truth.  Truth  is  the  soul  of  a  good  saying.  "  You  assert," 
observes  the  Sociates  of  modern  times,  ''  that  we  have  a  virtual  representa- 
tion ;  very  well,  let  us  have  a  virtual  taxation  too  ! "  Here  the  wit  is  in 
the  fidelity  of  the  scquitur.  When  Columbus  broke  the  egg,  where  was  the 
wit  ? — In  the  completeness  of  conviction  in  the  broken  egg. 

AUTO-THEOLOGY. 

Not  only  every  feet  but  every  individual  modifies  the  general  attributes 
of  the  Deity  towards  assimilation  with  his  own  character  :  the  just  man 
dwells  on  the  justice,  the  stern  upon  the  wrath  ;  the  attributes  that  do 
not  please  the  worshipper  he  insensibly  foigets.  Wherefore,  O  my  pupils, 
you  will  not  smile  when  you  read  in  Barnes  that  the  pigmies  declared  Jove 
himself  was  a  pigmy.  The  pious  vanity  of  man  makes  him  adore  his  own 
qualities  under  the  pretence  of  worshipping  those  of  his  God. 
GLORIOUS  CONSTITUTION. 

A  sentence  is  sometimes  as  good  as  a  volume.  If  a  man  ask  you  to  giv; 
him  some  idea  of  the  laws  of  England,  the  answer  is  short  and  easy  :  in  the 
laws  of  England  there  are  somewhere  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  laws  by 
which  a  poor  man  may  be  hanged,  but  not  one  by  which  he  can  obtain  jus- 
tice for  nothing  ! 

ANSWER  TO    THE     POPULAR     CANT    THAT     GOODNESS    IN   A    STATESMAN   IS 
BETTER  THAN   ABILITY. 

As  in  the  world  we  must  look  to  actions,  not  motives,  so  a  knave  is  the 
man  who  injures  you  ;  and  you  do  not  inquire  whether  the  injury  be  the 
fruit  of  malice  or  necessity.  Place  then  a  fool  in  power,  and  he  becomes 
unconsciously  the  knave.  Mr.  Addington  stumbled  on  the  two  very  worst 
and  most  villanous  taxes  human  malice  could  have  invented, — one  on  medi- 
cines, the  other  on  justice.  What  tyrant's  fearful  ingenuity  could  afflict  us 
more  than  by  imp^ing  at  once  redress  for  our  wrongs  and  cure  for  our 
diseases  ?  Mr.  Addington  was  the  fool  in  se,  and  therefore  the  knave  in 
office  ;  but,  bless  you  !  he  never  meant  it ! 

COMMON  SENSE. 

Common  sense — common  sense.  Of  all  phrases,  all  catch-words,  this  is 
often  the  most  deceitful  and  the  most  dangerous.  Look,  in  especial,  suspi- 
ciously upon  common  sense  whenever  it  is  opposed  to  discovery.  Common 
sense  is  the  experience  of  every  day.  Discovery  is  something  against  the 
experience  of  every  day.  No  wonder,  then,  that  when  Galileo  proclaimed 
a  great  truth,  the  universal  cry  was,  "  Psha  !  common  sense  will  tell  you 
the  reverse."  Talk  to  a  sensible  man,  for  the  first  time,  on  the  theory  of 
vision,  and  hear  what  his  common  sense  will  say  to  it.  In  a  letter  in  the  time 
of  Bacon,  the  writer,  of  no  mean  intellect  himself,  says,  "  It  is  a  pity  the 


TOMLINSON1ANA.  423 

chancellor  should  set  his  opinion  against  the  experience  of  so  many  centuries 
and  the  dictates  of  common  sense."  Common  sense,  then,  so  useful  in 
household  matters,  is  Uss  useful  in  the  legislative  and  in  the  scientific  world 
than  it  has  been  generally  diemed.  Naturally  the  advocate  for  what  has 
been  tried,  and  averse  to  what  is  speculative,  it  opposes  the  new  philosophy 
that  appeals  to  reason,  and  clings  to  the  old  which  is  propped  by  sanction. 
LOVE,  AND  WRITERS  ON  LOVE. 

My  warm,  hot-headed,  ardent  young  friends,  ye  are  in  the  flower  of  your 
life,  and  wiiting  verges  about  1  ve, — let  us  saya  word  on  the  su  ject.  There 
are  two  specus  •  f  love  common  to  all  men  ana  lomost  animals  ;  *  one  springs 
from  the  -enses,  the  other  grows  out  of  custom.  Now  neither  01  the>e,  my  dear 
young  friends,  is  the  love  that  you  pretend  to  fed — the  love  of  lovers.  Your 
passion  having  oniy  its  foundation  (and  that  unacknowledged)  >n  the  senses, 
owes  everything  else  to  the  imagination.  Now  the  imagination  of  the 
majority  is  different  in  complexion  and  degree,  in  every  country  and  in 
every  age  ;  so  al>o,  and  consequently,  is  the  love  of  the  imagination  :  as  a 
proof,  observe  that  you  sympathize  with  the  romantic  love  of  other  times  or 
nations  only  in  proportion  as  you  sympathize  with  their  poetry  and  imagi- 
native literature.  The  love  which  st.lks  through  the  Arcadia,  or  Amadis  ot 
Gaul,  is  to  the  great  bulk  of  readers  coldly  insipid,  or  solemnly  ridiculous. 
Alas  when  those  works  excited  enthus  asm,  so  did  the  love  which  they  de- 
scribe. The  long  speeches,  the  icy  compliments,  expressed  the  feeling  of 
the  day.  The  live  nudrigals  of  the  time  of  Shenstone,  or  the  brocade  gal- 
lantries of  the  French  poets  in  the  last  century,  any  woman  now  would  con- 
sider hol'ow  or  childish,  imbecile  or  artihc  al.  Once  the  songs  were 
natural  and  the  love  seductive.  And  now,  my  young  friends,  in  the  year 
1822,  in  which  I  write,  and  shall  probably  die,  the  love  which  glitters 
through  Moore,  and  walks  so  ambitiously  ambiguous  through  the  verse  of 
Byron  ;  the  L>ve  which  you  consider  now  so  deep  and  so  true  ;  the  love 
which  tingles  through  the  hearts  of  your  young  ladies,  and  seis  you  young 
gentlemen  gazing  on  the  evening  star  ;  all  that  love  too  will  become  unfa- 
miliar or  ridiculous  to  an  after-age  ;  and  the  young  aspirings,  and  the  moon- 
light dreams,  and  the  vague  fiddle-de-dees,  which  >enow  think  so  touching 
and  so  sublime,  will  go,  my  dear  boys,  where  Cowley's  mistress  and  Waller's 
Sacharissa  have  gone  b.-fore  ;  go  with  the  Sapphos  and  the  Chloes,  the 
elegant  "  charming  fairs,"  and  the  chivalric  "  most  beauteous  princesses  "  ! 
The  only  1  >ve-p>>etry  that  stands  through  all  time  and  appeals  to  all  hearts, 
is  that  which  is  founded  on  eitht  r  or  both  the  species  of  love  natural  to  all 
men  ;  the  l»ve  of  the  senses,  and  the  love  of  custom.  In  th  -  latter  is 
included  what  middle-aged  men  call  rational  attachment,  the  charm  of  con- 
g^nial  minds,  as  well  as  the  homely  and  wanner  accumulation  of  little 
memories  of  simple  kindness,  or  the  mere  bruie  habitude  of  seeing  a  face  as 
one  would  see  a  chair.  These,  sometimes  singly,  sometimes  skilfully  blended, 
make  the  theme  of  those  who  have  perhaps  loved  the  most  honestly  and  the 
most  humanly  ;  these  yet  render  Tibullus  pathetic,  and  Ovid  a  master  over 
tender  affections  ;  and  these,  above  all,  make  that  irresistible  and  all  touching 
inspiration  which  subdues  the  romantic,  the  calculating,  the  old,  the  young, 
the  court ie%  the  peasant,  the  poet,  the  man  of  business,  in  the  glorious 
love-poetry  of  Robert  Burns. 

THE  GREAT   ENTAILED. 

The  great  inheritance  of  man  is  a  commonwealth  of  blunders  ;  one  race 
spend  their  lives  in  botching  the  errors  transmitted  to  them  by  another  ;  and 
*  Most  animals  ;  for  some  appear  insensible  to  the  love  of  custom. 


424  TOMLINSONIANA. 

the  main  cause  of  all  political,  i.e.,  all  the  worst  and  most  general,  blunders 
is  this, — the  same  rule  we  apply  to  individual  cases  we  will  not  apply  to  pub- 
lic. All  men  consent  that  swindling  for  a  horse  is  swindling, — they  punish 
the  culprit  and  condemn  the  fault.  But  in  a  state  there  is  no  such  unan- 
imity. Swindling,  Lord  help  you  !  is  called  by  some  fine  name,  and  cheat- 
ing grows  grandiloquent,  and  styles  itself  "  Policy.'"  In  consequence  of  this, 
there  is  always  a  battle  between  those  who  call  things  by  their  right  names, 
and  those  who  pertinaciously  give  them  the  wrong  ones.  Hence  all  sorts  of 
confusion  ;  this  confusion  extends  very  soon  to  the  laws  made  for  individual 
cases  ;  and  thus  in  old  states,  though  the  world  is  still  agieed  that  private 
swindling  is  private  swindling,  there  is  the  devil's  own  difficulty  in  punish- 
ing the  swindling  of  the  public.  The  art  of  swindling  now  is  a  different 
thing  to  the  art  of  swindling  an  hundred  years  ago  ;  but  the  laws  remain  the 
same.  Adaptation  in  private  cases  is  innovation  in  public  ;  so,  without  re- 
pealing old  laws  they  make  new, — sometimes  these  are  effectual,  but  more 
often  not.  Now,  my  beloved  pupils,  a  law  is  a  gun,  which  if  it  misses  a 
pigeon  always  kills  a  crow, — if  it  does  not  strike  the  guilty  it  hits  some  one 
else.  As  every  crime  creates  a  law,  so  in  turn  every  law  creates  a  crime  ; 
and  hence  we  go  on  multiplying  sins  and  evils,  and  faults  and  blunders,  till 
society  becomes  the  organized  disorder  for  picking  pockets. 

THE   REGENERATION  OF    A  KNAVE. 

A  man  who  begins  the  world  by  being  a  fool,  often  ends  it  by  becoming  a 
knave  ;  but  he  who  begins  as  a  knave,  if  he  be  a  rich  man  (and  so  not 
hanged),  may  end,  my  beloved  pupils,  in  being  a  pious  creature.  And  this 
is  the  wherefore  :  "a  knave  early  "  soon  gets  knowledge  of  the  world.  One 
vice  worn  out  makes  us  wiser  than  fifty  tutors.  But  wisdom  causes  us  to  love 
quiet,  and  in  quiet  we  do  not  sin.  He  who  is  wise  and  sins  not  can  scarcely 
fail  of  doing  good  ;  for  let  him  but  utter  a  new  truth,  and  even  his  imagina- 
tion cannot  conceive  the  limit  of  the  good  he  may  have  done  to  man  ! 

STYLE. 

Do  you  well  understand  what  a  wonderful  thing  style  is?  I  think  not ; 
for  in  the  exercises  you  sent  me,  your  styles  betrayed  that  no  very  earnest 
consideration  had  been  lavished  upon  them.  Know,  then,  that  you  must 
pause  well  before  you  take  up  any  model  of  style.  On  your  style  often  de- 
pends your  own  character, — almost  always  the  character  given  you  by  the 
world.  If  you  adopt  the  lofty  style, — if  you  string  together  noble  phrases 
and  swelling  sonora,  you  have  expressed,  avowed,  a  frame  of  mind  which 
you  will  insensibly  desire  to  act  up  to  :  the  desire  gradually  begets  the 
capacity.  The  life  of  Dr.  Parr  is  Dr.  Parr's  style  put  in  action.  And  Lord 
Byron  makes  himself  through  existence  unhappy  for  having  accidentally 
slipped  into  a  melancholy  current  of  words.  But  suppose  you  escape  thi 
calamity  by  a  peculiar  hardihood  of  temperament,  you  escape  not  the  stamp 
of  popular  opinion.  Addison  must  ever  be  held  by  the  vulgar  the  most 
amiable  of  men,  because  of  the  social  amenity  of  his  diction  ;  and  the  ad- 
mirers of  language  will  always  consider  Burke  a  nobler  spirit  than  Fox,  be- 
cause of  the  grandeur  of  his  sentences.  How  many  wise  sayings  have  been 
called  jests  because  they  were  wittily  uttered  !  How  many  nothings  swelled 
their  author  into  a  sage  ;  ay,  a  saint,  because  they  were  strung  together  by 
the  old  hypocrite  nun — Gravity  ! 

THE  END. 


EUGENE    ARAM 


TO  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  BART. 

SIR: 

IT  has  long  been  my  ambition  to  add  some  humble  tribute  to  the  offerings 
laid  upon  the  shrine  of  your  genius.  At  each  succeeding  book  that  I  have 
given  to  the  world  I  have  paused  to  consider  if  it  were  worthy  to  be  inscribed 
with  your  great  name,  and  at  each  I.  have  played  the  procrastinator,  and 
hoped  for  that  morrow  of  better  desert  which  never  came.  But  defluat 
amnis,  the  time  runs  on,  and  I  am  tired  of  waiting  for  the  ford  which  the 
tides  refuse.  I  seize,  then,  the  present  opportunity,  not  as  the  best,  but  as 
the  only  one  I  can  be  sure  of  commanding,  to  express  that  affectionate 
admiration  with  which  you  have  inspired  me  in  common  with  all  your  con- 
temporaries, and  which  a  French  writer  has  not  ungracefully  termed  "  the 
happiest  prerogative  of  genius."  As  a  Poet,  and  as  a  Novelist,  your  fame 
has  attained  to  thai  height  in  which  praise  has  become  superfluous  ;  but  in 
the  character  of  the  writer  there  seems  to  me  a  yet  higher  claim  to  veneration 
than  in  that  of  the  writings.  The  example  your  genius  sets  us,  who  can 
emulate  ?  The  example  your  moderation  bequeaths  to  us,  who  shall  forget  ? 
That  nature  must  indeed  be  gentle  which  has  conciliated  the  envy  that  pur- 
sues intellectual  greatness,  and  left  without  an  enemy  a  man  who  has  no 
living  equal  in  renown. 

You  have  gone  for  a  while  from  the  scenes  you  have  immortalized,  to 
regain,  we  trust,  the  health  which  has  been  impaired  by  your  noble  labors, 
or  by  the  manly  struggles  with  adverse  fortunes,  which  have  not  found  the 
frame  as  indomitable  as  the  mind.  Take  with  you  the  prayers  of  all  whom 
your  genius,  with  playful  art,  has  soothed  in  sickness — or  has  strengthened, 
with  generous  precepts,  against  the  calamities  of  life.* 

"  Navis  quz  tibi  creditum 
Debes  Virgilium — 
Reddas  incolumem  !  "  t 

You,  I  feel  assured,  will  not  deem  it  presumptuous  in  one,  who,  to  that 
bright  and  undying  flame  which  now  streams  from  the  gray  hills  of  Scotland — 
the  last  halo  with  which  you  have  crowned  her  literary  glories — has  turned 
from  his  first  childhood  with  a  deep  and  unrelaxing  devotion  ;  you,  I  feel 
assured,  will  not  deem  it  presumptuous  in  him  to  inscribe  an  idle  work  with 
your  illustrious  name — a  work  which,  however  worthless  in  itself,  assumes 
something  of  value  in  his  eyes  when  thus  rendered  a  tribute  of  respect  to  you. 


THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  EUGENE  ARAM." 


LONDON, 

December  22,  1831. 


»  Written  at  the  time  of  Sir  W.  Scott's  visit  to  Italy,  after  the  great  blow  to  his  health 
and  fortunes. 

t  O  ship,  thou  owest  to  us  Virgil— restore  in  safety  him  whom  we  entrusted  to  thee. 

Ui 


PREFACE    TO    THE    EDITION    OF    1831. 

SINCE,  dear  Reader,  I  last  addressed  thee,  in  PAUL  CLIFFORD,  nearly  two 
years  have  elapsed,  and  somewhat  more  than  four  years  since,  in  PELHAM, 
our  familiarity  first  began.  The  Tale  which  I  now  submit  to  thee  differs 
equally  from  the  last  as  from  the  first  of  those  works  ;  for,  of  the  two  evils, 
perhaps  it  is  even  better  to  disappoint  thee  in  a  new  style,  than  to  weary 
thee  with  an  old.  With  the  facts  on  which  the  tale  of  EUGENE  ARAM  is 
founded,  I  have  exercised  the  common  and  fair  license  of  writers  of  fiction  : 
it  is  chiefly  the  more  homely  parts  of  the  real  story  that  have  been  altered  ; 
and  for  what  I  have  added,  and  what  omitted,  I  have  the  sanction  of  all 
established  authorities,  who  have  taken  greater  liberties  with  characters  yet 
more  recent,  and  far  more  protected  by  historical  recollections.  The  b  ok 
was,  for  the  most  part,  written  in  the  early  part  of  the  year,  when  the  mer- 
est which  the  task  created  in  the  Author  was  undivided  by  other  subjects  of 
excitement,  and  he  had  leisure  enough  not  only  to  be  nescio  quid  meditans 
nugarum,  but  also  to  be  to  tits  in  illis  !  * 

I  originally  intended  to  adapt  the  story  of  Eugene  Aram  to  the  Stage. 
That  design  was  abandoned  when  more  than  half  completed  ;  but  I  wished 
to  impart  to  this  Romance  something  of  the  nature  of  Tragedy, — something 
of  the  more  transferable  of  its  qualities.  Enough  of  this  :  it  is  not  the 
Author's  wishes,  but  the  Author's  books,  that  the  world  will  judge  him  by. 
Perhaps,  then  (with  this  1  conclude),  in  the  dull  monotony  of  public  affairs, 
and  in  these  long  winter  evenings,  when  we  gather  round  the  fire,  prepared 
for  the  gossip's  tale,  willing  to  indulge  the  fear,  and  to  believe  the  legend, 
perhaps,  dear  Reader,  thou  mayest  turn,  not  reluctantly,  even  to  these 
pnges,  for  at  least  a  newer  excitement  than  the  Cholera,  or  for  a  momentary 
relief  from  the  everlasting  discussions  on 

LONDON, 

December  22,  1831. 

*  Not  only  to  be  meditating  I  know  not  what  of  trifles,  but  also  to  be  wholly  engaged  on 
them. 

t  The  y«ar  of  the  Reform  Bill. 


PREFACE    TO    THE    EDITION    OF    1840. 

THE  strange  history  of  Eugene  Aram  had  excited  my  interest  and  wonder 
long  before  the  present  work  was  composed  or  conceived.  It  so  happened, 
that  during  Aram's  residence  at  Lynn,  his  reputation  for  learning  had  at- 
tracted the  notice  of  my  grandfather — a  country  gentleman  living  in  the  same 
county,  and  of  more  intelligence  and  accomplishments  than,  at  that  day,  usu- 
ally characterized  his  class.  Aram  frequently  visited  at  Heydon  (my  grand- 
father's house),  and  gave  lessons,  probably  in  no  very  elevated  branches  of 
erudition,  to  the  younger  members  of  the  family.  This  I  chanced  to  hear 
when  I  was  on  a  visit  in  Norfolk,  some  two  years  before  this  novel  was  pub- 
lished, and  it  tended  to  increase  the  interest  with  which  I  had  previously 
speculated  on  the  phenomena  of  a  trial  which,  take  it  altogether,  is  perhaps 
the  most  remarkable  in  the  register  of  English  crime.  I  endeavored  to  col- 
lect such  anecdotes  of  Aram's  life  and  manners  as  tradition  and  hearsay  still 
kept  afloat.  These  anecdotes  were  so  far  uniform  that  they  all  concurred  in 
representing  him  as  a  person  who,  till  the  detection  of  the  crime  for  which  he 
was  sentenced,  had  appeared  of  the  mildest  character  and  the  most  unexcep- 
tionable morals.  An  invariable  gentleness  and  patience  in  his  mode  of  tui- 
tion— qualities  then  very  uncommon  at  schools — had  made  him  so  beloved  by 
his  pupils  at  Lynn,  that,  in  after-life,  there  was  scarcely  one  of  them  who  did 
not  persist  in  the  belief  of  his  innocence.  His  personal  and  moral  peculiari- 
ties, as  described  in  these  pages,  are  such  as  were  related  to  me  by  persons 
who  had  heard  him  described  by  his  contemporaries  :  the  calm,  benign  coun- 
tenance ;  the  delicate  health  ;  the  thoughtful  stoop  ;  the  noiseless  st«p  ;  the 
custom,  not  uncommon  with  scholars  and  absent  men,  of  muttering  to  him- 
self ;  a  singular  eloquence  in  conversation,  when  once  roused  from  silence  ; 
an  active  tenderness  and  charily  to  the  poor,  with  whom  he  was  always  ready 
to  share  his  own  scanty  means  ;  an  apparent  disregard  to  money,  except  when 
employed  in  the  purchase  of  books  ;  an  utter  indifference  to  the  ambition 
usually  accompanying  self-taught  talent,  whether  to  better  the  condition  or 
to  increase  the  repute — these,  and  other  traits  of  the  character  portrayed  in 
the  novel,  are,  as  far  as  I  can  rely  on  my  information,  faithful  to  the  features 
of  the  original. 

That  a  man  thus  described — so  benevolent  that  he  would  rob  his  own  ne- 
cessities to  administer  to  those  of  another,  so  humane  that  he  would  turn 
aside  from  the  worm  in  his  path — should  have  been  guilty  of  the  foulest  of 
human  crimes,  viz. ,  murder  for  the  sake  of  gain  ;  that  a  crime  thus  com- 
mitted should  have  been  so  episodical  and  apart  from  the  rest  of  his  career  ; 
that,  however  it  might  rankle  in  his  conscience,  it  should  never  have  hard- 
ened his  nature  ;  that,  through  a  life  of  some  duration,  none  of  the  errors, 
none  of  the  vices,  which  would  seem  essentially  to  belong  to  a  character  capa- 
ble of  a  deed  so  black  from  motives  apparently  so  sordid,*  should  have  been 
discovered  or  suspected — all  this  presents  an  anomaly  in  human  conduct  so 

*  For  I  put  wholly  out  of  question  the  excuse  of  jealousy,  as  unsupported  by  any  evi- 
dence— never  hinted  at  by  Aram  himself  (at  least  on  any  sufficient  authority) — and  at  va- 
riance with  the  only  fact  which  the  trial  establishes,  viz.,  that  the  robbery  was  the  crime 
planned,  and  the  cause,  whether  accidental  or  otherwise,  of  the  murder. 


VI  PREFACE   TO   THE   EDITION    OF    1840. 

rate  and  surprising,  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  any  subject  more  adapted 
for  that  metaphysical  speculation  and  analysis,  in  order  to  indulge  which, 
Fiction,  whether  in  the  drama  or  the  higher  class  of  romance,  seeks  its  ma- 
terials and  grounds  its  lessons  in  the  chronicles  of  passion  and  crime. 

The  guilt  of  Eugene  Aram  is  not  that  of  a  vulgar  ruffian  ;  it  leads  to  views 
and  considerations  vitally  and  wholly  distinct  from  those  with  which  profli- 
gate knavery  and  brutal  cruelty  revolt  and  displease  us  in  the  literature  of 
Newgate  and  the  Hulks.  His  crime  does,  in  fact,  belong  to  those  startling 
paradoxes  which  the  poetry  of  all  countries,  and  especially  of  our  own,  has 
always  delighted  to  contemplate  and  examine.  Whenever  crime  appears  the 
aberration  and  monstrous  product  of  a  great  intellect,  or  of  a  nature  ordi- 
narily virtuous  it  becomes  not  only  the  subject  for  genius,  which  deals  with 
passions,  to  describe  ;  but  a  problem  for  philosophy,  which  deals  with  ac- 
tions to  investigate  and  solve  ;  hence,  the  Macbeths  and  Richards,  the  lagos 
and  Othellos.  My  regret,  therefore,  is  not  that  I  chose  a  subject  unworthy 
of  elevated  fiction,  but  that  such  a  subject  did  not  occur  to  some  one  capa- 
ble of  treating  it  as  it  deserves  :  and  I  never  felt  this  more  strongly  than 
when  the  late  Mr.  Godwin  (in  conversing  with  me  after  the  publication  of 
this  romance)  observed  that  "  he  had  always  thought  the  story  of  Eugene 
Aram  peculiarly  adapted  for  fiction,  and  that  he  had  more  than  once  enter- 
tained the  notion  of  making  it  the  foundation  of  a  novel."  I  can  well  con- 
ceive w  hat  depth  and  power  that  gloomy  record  would  have  taken  from  the 
dark  and  inquiring  genius  of  the  author  of  Caleb  Williams.  In  fact,  the 
crime  and  trial  of  Eugene  Aram  arrested  the  attention  and  engaged  the  con- 
jectures of  many  of  the  most  eminent  men  of  his  own  time.  His  guilt  or 
innocence  was  the  matter  of  strong  contest  ;  and  so  keen  and  so  enduring 
was  the  sensation  created  by  an  event  thus  completely  distinct  from  the  ordi- 
nary annals  of  human  crime,  that  even  History  turned  aside  from  the  so- 
norous narrative  of  the  struggles  of  parties,  and  the  feuds  of  kings,  to  com- 
memorate the  learning  and  the  guilt  of  the  humble  schoolmaster  of  Lynn. 
Did  I  w^nt  any  other  answer  to  the  animadversions  of  commonplace  criticism, 
it  mkht  be  sufficient  to  say  that  what  the  historian  relates,  the  novelist  has 
little  right  to  disdain. 

Before  entering  on  this  romance,  I  examined  with  some  care  the  proba- 
bilities of  Aram's  guilt  ;  for  I  need  scarcely  perhaps  observe,  that  the  legal 
evidence  against  him  is  extremely  deficient — furnished  almost  entirely  by  one 
(Houseman)  confessedly  an  accomplice  of  the  crime,  and  a  partner  in  the 
booty  ;  and  that,  in  the  present  day,  a  man  tried  upon  evidence  so  scanty 
and  suspicious  would  unquestionably  escape  conviction.  Nevertheless,  I 
must  frankly  own  that  the  moral  evidence  appeared  to  me  more  convincing 
than  the  legal  ;  and,  though  not  without  some  doubt,  which,  in  common  with 
many,  I  s'ill  entertain  of  the  real  facts  of  the  murder,*  I  adopted  that  view 
which,  at  all  events,  was  the  best  suited  to  the  higher  purposes  of  fiction. 
On  the  whole,  I  still  think  that  if  the  crime  were  committed  by  Aram,  the 
motive  was  not  very  far  removed  from  one  which  led  recently  to  a  remarkable 
murder  in  Spain.  A  priest  in  that  country,  wholly  absorbed  in  learned  pur- 
suits, and  apparently  of  spotless  life,  confessed  that,  being  debarred  by  ex- 
treme poverty  from  prosecuting  a  study  which  had  become  the  sole  passion  of 
his  existence,  he  had  reasoned  himself  into  the  belief  that  it  would  be  ad- 
missible to  rob  a  very  dissolute,  worthless  man,  if  he  applied  the  money  so 
obtained  to  the  acquisition  of  a  knowledge  which  he  could  not  otherwise  ac- 
quire, and  which  he  held  to  be  profitable  to  mankind.  Unfortunately,  the 

*  See  Preface  to  the  Present  Edition,  p.  viii. 


PREFACE    TO    THE    EDITION    OF    1840.  VU 

dissolute  rich  man  was  not  willing  to  be  robbed  for  so  excellent  a  purpose  : 
he  was  armed  and  he  resisted — a  struggle  ensued,  and  the  crime  of  homicide 
was  added  to  that  of  robbery.  The  robbery  was  premeditated  :  the  murder: 
was  accidental.  But  he  who  would  accept  some  similar  interpretation  of 
Aram's  crime  must,  to  comprehend  fully  the  lessons  which  belong  to  so  ter- 
rible ^  picture  of  frenzy  and  guilt,  consider  also  the  physical  circumstances 
and  condition  of  the  criminal  at  the  time  :  severe  illness  ;  intense  labor  of 
the  brain  ;  poverty  bordering  upon  famine  ;  the  mind  preternaturally  at 
work,  devising  schemes  and  excuses  to  arrive  at  the  means  for  ends  ardently 
desired.  And  all  this  duly  considered,  the  reader  may  see  the  crime  bodying 
itself  out  from  the  shades  and  chimeras  of  a  horrible  hallucination — the  awful 
dream  of  a  brief  but  delirious  and  convulsed  disease.  It  is  thus  only  that  we 
can  account  for  the  contradiction  of  one  deed  at  war  with  a  whole  life — blast- 
ing, indeed,  for  ever  the  happiness  ;  but  making  little  revolution  in  the  pur- 
suits and  disposition  of  the  character.  No  one  who  has  examined  with  care 
and  thoughtfulness  the  aspects  of  Life  and  Nature,  but  muse  allow  that,  in 
the  contemplation  of  such  a  spectacle,  great  and  most  moral  truths  must  force 
themselves  on  the  notice  and  sink  deep  into  ihe  heart.  The  entanglements 
of  human  reasoning  ;  the  influence  of  circumstance  up  >n  deeds  ;  the  perver- 
sion that  may  be  made,  by  one  self  palter  with  the  Fiend,  of  elements  the 
most  glorious  :  the  secret  effect  of  conscience  in  frustrating  all  for  which  the 
crime  was  done — leaving  genius  without  hope,  knowledge  without  fruit- 
deadening  benevolence  into  mechanism — tainting  love  itself  with  terror  and 
suspicion — such  reflections,  leading,  with  subtler  minds,  to  many  more  vast 
and  complicated  theorems  in  the  consideration  of  our  nature,  social  and  indi- 
vidual, arise  out  of  the  tragic  moral  which  the  story  of  Eugene  Arain  (were 
it  but  adequately  treated)  could  not  fail  to  convey. 

BRUSSELS, 

August,  1840. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  PRESENT  EDITION. 

IF  none  of  my  prose  works  have  been  so  attacked  as  EUGENE  ARAM,  none 
have  so  completely  triumphed  over  attack.  It  is  true  that,  whether  from  real 
or  affected  ignorance  of  the  true  morality  of  fiction,  a  few  critics  may  still 
reiterate  the  old  commonplace  charges  of  "  selecting  heroes  from  Newgate," 
or  "  investing  murderers  with  interest  ";  but  the  firm  hold  which  the  v*ork 
has  established  in  the  opinion  of  the  general  public,  and  the  favor  it  has  re- 
ceived in  every  country  where  English  literature  is  known,  suffice  to  prove 
that,  whatever  its  faults,  it  belongs  to  that  legitimate  class  of  fiction  which 
illustrates  life  and  truth,  and  only  deals  with  crime  as  the  recognized  agency 
of  pity  and  terror,  in  the  conduct  of  tmgic  nairative.  All  that  I  would  say 
farther  on  this  score  has  been  said  in  the  general  defence  of  my  writings 
which  I  put  forth  two  years  ago  ;  and  I  ask  the  indulgence  of  the  reader  if 
I  repeat  myself  : 

"  Here,  unlike  the  milder  guilt  of  Paul  Clifford,  the  author  was  not  to  im- 
ply reform  to  society,  nor  open  in  this  world  atonement  and  pardon  to  the 
criminal.  As  it  would  have  been  wholly  in  vain  to  disguise,  by  mean  tam- 
pering1? with  art  and  truth,  the  ordinary  habits  of  life  and  attributes  of  char- 
acter, which  all  record  and  remembrance  ascribed  to  Eugene  Aram,  as  it 
would  have  defeated  every  end  of  the  moral  inculcated  by  his  guilt,  to  por- 
tray in  the  caricature  of  the  murderer  of  melodrame,  a  man  immersed  in 
study,  of  whom  it  was  noted  that  he  turned  aside  from  the  worm  in  his  path, 
so  I  have  allowed  to  him  whatever  contrasts  with  his  inexpiable  crime  have 
been  recorded  on  sufficient  authority.  But  I  have  invariably  taken  care  that 
the  crime  itself  should  stand  stripped  of  every  sophistry,  and  hideous  to  the 
perpetrator  as  well  as  to  the  world.  Allowing  all  by  which  attention  to  his 
biography  may  explain  the  tremendous  paradox  of  fearful  guilt  in  a  man  as- 
piring after  knowledge,  and  not  generally  inhumane;  allowing  that  the  crime 
came  upon  him  in  the  partial  insanity,  produced  by  the  combining  circum- 
stances of  a  brain  overwrought  by  in'ense  study,  disturbed  by  an  excited 
imagination,  and  the  fumes  of  a  momentary  disease  of  the  reasoning  faculty, 
consumed  by  the  desire  of  knowledge,  unwholesome  and  morbid,  because 
coveted  as  an  end,  not  a  means,  added  to  the  other  physical  causes  of  mental 
aberration  to  be  found  in  loneliness,  and  want  verging  upon  famine — all 
these,  which  a  biographer  may  suppose  to  have  conspired  to  his  crime,  have 
never  been  used  by  the  novelist  as  excuses  for  its  enormity,  nor  indeed,  lest 
they  should  seem  as  excuses,  have  they  ever  been  clearly  presented  to  the 
view.  The  moral  consisted  in  showing  more  than  the  mere  legal  punish- 
ment at  the  close.  It  was  to  show  how  the  consciousness  of  the  deed  was  to 
exclude  whatever  humanity  of  character  preceded  and  belied  it  from  all  active 
exercise — all  social  confidence  ;  how  the  knowledge  of  the  bar  between  the 
minds  of  others  and  his  own  deprived  the  criminal  of  all  motive  to  ambition, 
and  blighted  knowledge  of  all  fruit:  Miserable  in  his  affections,  barren  in 
his  intellect ;  clinging  to  solitude,  yet  accursed  in  it  ;  dreading  as  a  danger 
the  fame  he  had  once  coveted  ;  obscure  in  spite  of  learning,  hopeless  in  spite 
of  love,  fruitless  and  joyless  in  his  life,  calamitous  and  shameful  in  his  end— 


PREFACE    TO    THE    PRESENT    EDITION.  IX 

Surely  such  is  no  palliative  of  crime,  no  dalliance  and  toying  with  the  grim- 
ness  of  evil!  And  surely,  to  any  oidinary  comprehension,  any  candid  mind, 
such  is  the  moral  conveyed  by  the  fiction  of  EUGENE  ARAM."* 

In  point  of  composition  EUGENE  ARAM  is,  I  think,  entitled  to  rank 
amongst  the  best  of  my  fictions.  It  somewhat  humiliates  me  to  acknowledge 
that  neither  practice  nor  study  has  enabled  me  to  surpass  a  work  written  at 
a  very  early  age,  in  the  skilful  construction  and  patient  development  of  plot  ; 
and  though  I  have  since  sought  to  call  forth  higher  and  more  subtle  pas- 
sions, I  doubt  if  I  have  ever  excited  the  two  elementary  passions  of  tragedy, 
viz.,  pity  and  terror,  to  the  same  degree.  In  mere  style,  too,  EUGENE 
ARAM,  in  spite  of  certain  verbal  oversights,  and  defects  in  youthful  taste 
(some  of  which  I  have  endeavored  to  remove  from  the  present  edition), 
appears  to  me  unexcelled  by  any  of  my  later  writings,  at  least  in  what  I  have 
always  studied  as  the  main  essential  of  style  in  narrative,  viz.,  its  harmony 
with  the  subject  selected,  and  the  passions  to  be  moved  ;  while  it  exceeds 
them  all  in  the  minuteness  and  fidelity  of  its  descriptions  of  external  nature. 
This  indeed  it  ought  to  do,  since  the  study  of  external  nature  is  made  a 
peculiar  attribute  of  the  principal  character  whose  fate  colors  the  narrative. 
I  do  not  know  whether  it  has  been  observed  that  the  time  occupied  by  the 
events  of  the  story  is  conveyed  'hrough  the  medium  of  such  descriptions. 
Each  description  is  introduced,  not  for  its  own  sake,  but  to  serve  as  a  calen- 
dar marking  the  gradual  changes  of  the  seasons  as  they  bear  on  to  his  doom 
the  guilty  worshipper  of  Nature.  And  in  this  conception,  and  in  the  care 
with  which  it  has  been  followed  out,  I  recognize  one  of  my  earliest  but  most 
successful  attempts  at  the  subtler  principles  of  narrative  art. 

In  this  edition  I  have  made  one  alteration,  somewhat  more  important  than 
mere  verbal  correction.  On  going,  with  maturer  judgment,  over  all  the 
evidences  on  which  Aram  was  condemned,  I  have  convinced  myself,  that 
though  an  accomplice  in  the  robbery  of  Clarke,  he  was  free  both  from  the 
premeditated  design  and  the  actual  deed  of  murder.  The  crime,  indeed, 
would  still  rest  on  his  conscience,  and  insure  his  punishment,  as  nec- 
essarily incidental  to  the  robbery  in  which  he  was  an  accomplice,  with  House- 
man; but  finding  my  convictions,  that  in  the  murder  itself  he  had  no  share, 
borne  out  by  the  opinion  of  many  eminent  laxvyers,  by  whom  I  have  heard 
the  subject  discussed,  I  have  accordingly  so  shaped  his  confession  to 
Walter. 

Perhaps  it  will  not  be  without  interest  to  the  reader  if  I  append  to  this 
preface  an  authentic  specimen  of  Eugene  Aram's  composition,  for  which  I 
am  indebted  to  the  courtesy  of  a  gentleman  by  whose  grandfather  it  was  re- 
ceived, with  other  papers  (especially  a  remarkable  "  Outline  cf  a  New  Lexi- 
con "),  during  Aram's  confinement  in  York  Prison.  The  essay  I  select  is, 
indeed,  not  without  value  in  itself  as  a  very  curious  and  learned  illustration 
of  Popular  Antiquities,  and  it  serves  also  to  show  not  only  the  comprehen- 
sive nature  of  Aram's  studies,  and  the  inquisitive  eagerness  of  his  mind,  but 
also  the  fact  that  he  was  completely  self-taught  ;  for  in  contrast  to  much 
philological  erudition,  and  to  passages  that  evince  considerable  mastery  in 
the  higher  resources  of  language,  we  may  occasionally  notice  those  lesser 
inaccuracies  from  which  the  writings  of  men  solely  self-educated  are  rarely 
free  ;  indeed,  Aram  himself,  in  sending  to  a  gentleman  an  elegy  on  Sir  John 
Armilage,  which  shows  much  but  undisciplined  power  of  versification,  says, 
"  I  send  this  elegy,  which,  indeed,  if  you  had  not  had  the  curiosity  to  desire, 
I  could  not  have  had  the  assurance  to  offer,  scarce  believing  I,  who  was 
hardly  taught  to  read,  have  any  abilities  to  write.1' 
*  A  Word  to  the  Public,  1847. 


ESSAY    BY    EUGENE    ARAM. 


THE  MELSUPPER  AND  SHOUTING  THE  CHURN. 

THESE  rural  entertainments  and  usages  were  formerly  more  general  all 
over  England  than  they  are  at  present ;  being  become  by  time,  necessity,  or 
avarice,  complex,  confined,  and  altered.  They  are  commonly  insisted  upon 
by  the  reapers  as  customary  things,  and  a  part  of  their  due  for  the  toils  of 
the  harvest,  and  complied  with  by  their  masters  peihaps  more  thiough  regards 
of  interest,  than  inclination.  For  should  they  refuse  ti.em  the  pleasures  of 
this  much  expected  time,  this  festal  night,  the  youth  especially,  of  bolhsexe-, 
would  decline  serving  them  for  the  future,  and  employ  their  labor  for  others, 
who  would  promise  them  the  rustic  joys  of  the  harvest  supper,  minh  and 
music,  dance  and  song.  These  feasts  appear  to  be  the  relics  of  Pagan  cere- 
monies, or  of  Judaism,  it  is  hard  to  say  which,  and  carry  in  them  more 
meaning  and  are  of  far  higher  antiquity  than  is  generally  apprehended.  It 
is  true  the  subject  is  more  curious  than  important,  ai'.d  I  believe  altogether 
untouched  ;  and  as  it  seems  to  be  little  understood,  has  been  as  little  adverted 
to.  I  do  not  remember  it  to  have  been  so  much  as  the  subject  of  a  conver- 
sation. Let  us  make  then  a  little  excursion  into  this  field,  for  the  same 
reason  men  sometimes  take  a  walk.  Its  traces  are  discoverable  at  a  very 
great  distance  of  time  from  ours,  nay,  seem  as  old  as  a  sense  of  joy  for  the 
benefit  of  plentiful  harvests  and  human  gratitude  to  the  eternal  Creator  for 
his  munificence  to  men.  We  hear  it  under  various  names  in  different  counties, 
and  often  in  the  same  county  ;  as,  mehupper,  churn  supper,  harvest  supper, 
harvest  home,  feast  of  in-gathering,  etc.  And  perhaps  this  feast  had  been 
long  observed,  and  by  different  tubes  of  people,  before  it  became  perceptive 
with  the  Jews.  However,  let  that  be  as  it  will,  the  custom  very  lucidly 
appears  from  the  following  passages  of  S.  S.,  Exod.  xxiii.  16,  "And  the 
feast  of  harvest,  the  first  fruits  of  thy  labors,  which  thou  hast  sown  in  the 
field."  And  its  institution  as  a  sacred  right  is  commanded  in  Levit.  xxiii.  39  : 
"  When  ye  have  gathered  in  the  fruit  of  the  land,  ye  shall  keep  a  feast  to  the 
Lord. " 

The  Jews  then,  as  is  evident  from  hence,  celebrated  the  feast  of  harvest, 
and  that  by  precept ;  and  though  no  vestiges  of  any  such  feast  either  are  or 
can  be  produced  before  these,  yet  the  oblation  of  the  Primitiae,  of  which  this 
feast  was  a  consequence,  is  met  with  prior  to  this,  for  we  find  that,  "  Cain 
brought  of  the  fruit  of  the  ground  an  offering  to  the  Lord." — Gen.  iv.  3. 

Yet  this  offering  of  the  first  fruits,  it  may  well  be  supposed,  was  not  pe- 
culiar to  the  Jews,  either  at  the  time  of,  or  after,  its  establishment  by  their 
legislate  r ;  neither  the  feast  in  consequence  of  it.  Many  other  nations, 
either  in  imitation  of  the  Jews,  or  rather  by  tradition  from  their  several  patri- 
archs, observed  the  right  of  offering  their  Primitive,  and  of  solemnizing  a  fes- 
tival af.er  it,  in  religious  acknowledgment  for  the  blessing  of  harvest,  though 
that  acknowledgment  was  ignorantly  misapplied  in  being  directed  to  a  second- 
ary, not  the  primary,  fountain  of  this  benefit — namely  to  Apollo  or  the  Sun. 

For  Callimachus  affirms  that  these  Primitive  were  sent  by  the  people  of 
every  nation  to  the  temple  of  Apollo  in  Delos,  the  most  distant  that  enjoyed 
the  happiness  of  corn  and  harvest,  even  by  the  Hyperboreans  in  particular, 
Hymn  to  Apollo,  Ot  ftevroi  na^afij/v  re  KOI  iepa  6payfia  irpurot  atrrawwv, 
"  Iking  the  sacred  sheafa,  and  the  mystic  offerings." 

Herodotus  also  mentions  this  annual  custom  of  the  Hyperboreans,  re- 
marking that  those  of  Delos  talk  of  'Iepa  evdede/ieva  ev  na^afiy  irvpuv  e£ 
"Holy  things  tied  up  in  sheaf  of  wheat  conveyed  from  the 


THE    MELSUPPER    AND    SHOUTING    THE    CHURN.  XI 

Hyperboreans."  And  the  Jews,  by  (he  command  of  their  law,  offered  also  a 
sheaf:  "  And  shall  reap  the  harvest  thereof,  then  ye  shall  bring  a  sheaf  of 
the  first  fruits  of  the  harvest  unto  the  priest." 

This  is  not  introduced  in  proof  of  any  feast  observed  by  the  people  who 
had  harvests,  but  to  show  the  universality  of  the  custom  of  offering  the 
Primitiae,  which  preceded  this  feast.  But  yet  it  may  be  looked  upon  as 
equivalent  to  a  proof ;  for  as  the  offering  and  the  feast  appear  to  have  been 
always  and  intimately  connected  in  countries  affording  records,  so  it  is  more 
than  probable  they  were  connected  too  in  countries  which  had  none,  or  none 
that  ever  survived  to  our  times.  An  entertainment  and  gayety  were  still  the 
concomitants  of  these  rites,  which  with  the  vulgar,  one  may  pretty  truly  sup- 
pose, were  esteemed  the  most  acceptable  and  material  part  of  them,  and  a 
great  reason  of  their  having  subsisted  through  such  a  length  of  ages,  when 
both  the  populace,  and  many  of  the  learned  too,  have  lost  sight  of  the  object 
to  which  they  had  been  originally  directed.  This, among  many  other  ceremo- 
nies of  the  heathen  worship,  became  disused  in  some  places  and  retained  in 
others,  but  still  continued  declining  after  the  promulgation  of  the  Gospel.  la 
short,  there  seems  great  reason  to  conclude  that  this  feast,  which  was  once 
sacred  to  Apollo,  was  constantly  maintained,  when  a  far  less  valuable  cir- 
cumstance, i.e.,  shouting  the  churn,  is  observed  to  this  day  by  the  reapers, 
and  from  so  old  an  era  ;  for  we  read  of  this  acclamation,  Isa.  xvi.  9.  "  For 
the  shouting  for  thy  summer  fruits  and  for  thy  harvest  is  fallen  ";  and  again, 
ver.  10 ;  "And  in  the  vineyards  there  shall  be  no  singing,  their  shouting 
shall  be  no  shouting."  Hence  then,  or  from  some  of  the  Phoenician  colo- 
nies, is  our  traditionary  "  shouting  the  churn."  But  it  seems  these  Orientals 
shouted  both  for  joy  of  their  harvest  of  grapes,  and  of  corn.  We  have  no 
quantity  of  the  first  to  occasion  so  much  joy  as  does  our  plenty  of  the  last  ; 
and  I  do  not  remember  to  have  heard  whether  their  vintages  abroad  are 
attended  with  this  custom.  Bread  or  cakes  compose  part  of  the  Hebrew- 
offering  (Levit.  xxiii.  13),  and  a  cake  thrown  upon  the  head  of  the  victim 
was  also  part  of  the  Greek  offering  to  Apollo  (see  Horn.  II.  a),  whose  worship 
was  formerly  celebrated  in  Britain,  where  the  May-pole  yet  continues  one 
remain  of  it.  This  they  adorned  with  garlands  on  May-day,  to  welcome  the 
approach  of  Apollo,  or  the  sun,  towards  the  north,  and  to  signify  that  those 
flowers  were  the  product  of  his  presence  and  influence.  But,  upon  the 
progress  of  Christianity,  as  was  observed  above,  Apollo  lost  his  divinity 
again,  and  the  adoration  of  his  deity  subsided  by  degrees.  Yet  so  perma- 
nent is  custom,  that  this  right  of  the  harvest  supper,  together  with  that  of 
the  May-pole  (of  which  last  see  Voss.  de  Orig.  and  Prag.  Idolatr.  \,  2),  have 
been  preserved  in  Britain  ;  and  what  had  been  anciently  offered  to  the  god, 
the  reapers  as  prudently  eat  up  themselves. 

At  last  the  use  of  the  meal  of  the  new  corn  was  neglected,  and  the  supper, 
so  far  as  meal  was  concerned,  was  made  indifferently  of  old  or  new  corn,  as 
was  most  agreeable  to  the  founder.  And  here  the  usage  itself  accounts  for 
the  name  of  Melsupper  where  mel  signifies  meal,  or  else  the  instrument  called 
with  us  a  Mell,  wherewith  antiquity  reduced  their  corn  to  meal  in  a  mortar 
(which  still  amounts  to  the  same  thing)  for  provisions  of  meal,  or  of  corn  in 
furmity,  etc..  composed  by  far  the  greatest  part  in  these  elder  and  country 
entertainments,  perfectly  conformable  to  the  simplici'y  of  those  times,  places, 
and  persons,  however  meanly  they  may  now  be  looked  upon.  And  as  the 
harvest  was  last  concluded  with  several  preparations  of  meal,  or  brought  to  be 
ready  for  the  mell,  this  term  became,  in  a  translated  signification,  to  mean  the 
last  of  other  things  :  as,  when  a  horse  comes  last  in  the  race,  they  often  say 
in  the  north,  "  He  has  got  the  mell" 


Xll  ESSAY    BY    EUGENE    ARAM. 

All  the  other  names  of  this  country  festivity  sufficiently  explain  themselves, 
except  Churn-supper,  and  this  is  entirely  different  from  Melsupper  ;  but  they 
generally  happen  so  near  together,  that  they  are  frequently  confounded.  The 
Churn-supper  was  always  provided  when  all  was  shorn,  but  the  Melsupper 
after  all  was  got  in.  And  it  was  called  the  Churn-supper,  because,  Irom 
immemorial  times,  it  was  customary  to  produce  in  a  churn  a  great  quantity 
of  cream,  and  to  circulate  it  by  dishfuls  to  each  of  the  rustic  company,  to  be 
eaten  with  bread.  And  here  sometimes  very  extraordinary  execution  has  been 
done  upon  cream.  And  though  this  custom  has  been  disused  in  many  places, 
and  agreeably  commuted  for  by  ale,  yet  it  survives  still,  and  that  about 
Whitby  and  Scarborough  in  the  east,  and  round  about  Gisburn,  etc. ,  in 
Craven,  in  the  west.  But,  perhaps,  a  century  or  two  more  will  put  an  end  to 
it,  and  both  the  thing  and  name  shall  die.  Vicarious  ale  is  now  more  ap- 
proved, and  the  tankard  almost  everywhere  politely  preferred  to  the  Churn. 

This  Churn  (in  our  provincial  pronunciation  Kern)  is  the  Hebrew  Kern,  np 
or  Keren,  from  its  being  circular  like  most  horns  :  and  it  is  the  Latin  corona, 
named  so  either  from  radii,  resembling  horns,  as  on  some  very  ancient  coins, 
or  from  its  encircling  the  head  ;  so  a  ring  of  people  is  called  corona.  Also 
the  Celtic  Koren,  Keren,  or  corn,  which  continues  according  to  its  old  pro- 
nunciation in  Cornwall,  etc.,  and  our  modern  word  horn  is  no  more  than 
this  ;  the  ancient  hard  sound  of  k  in  corn  being  softened  into  the  aspirate  //, 
as  has  been  done  in  numberless  instances. 

The  Irish  Celtae  also  call  a  round  stone,  clogh  crene,  where  the  variation  is 
merely  dialectic.  Hence,  too,  our  crane-berries,  i.e.  round  berries,  from  this 
Celtic  adjective,  cretie,  round. 

N.  B.  The  quotations  from  Scripture  in  Aram's  original  MS.  were  both 
in  the  Hebrew  character,  and  their  value  in  English  sounds. 


CONTENTS. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1831, iv 

PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1840 v 

PREFACE  TO  THE  PRESENT  EDITION, yiii 

ESSAY  BV  EUGENE  ARAM, x 

BOOK  I. 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.     The  Village. — Its   Inhabitants. — An    Old   Manor-house,   and  an    English 

Family:  Their  History,  involving  a  Mysterious  Event,       ....  17 

II.     A  Publican,  a  Sinner,  and  a  Stranger, 25 

III,  A  Dialogue  and  an  A4arm. — A  Student's' House, 34 

IV.  The  Soliloquy,  and  the  Character,  of  a  Recluse. — The  Interruption,     .        .  44 
V.     A  Dinner  at  the  Squire's  Hall. — A  Conversation  between  two  Retired  Men 

with  Different  Objects  in  Retirement. — Disturbance  first  introduced  into  a 

Peaceful  Family, .48 

VI.     The  Behavior  of  the  Student. — A   Summer  Scene.— Aram's   Conversation 

with  Walter,  and  Subsequent  Colloquy  with  Himself,  .         •         •         •         55 

VII.     The  Power  of  Love  over  the  Resolution  of  the  Student. — Aram  becomes  a 
frequent  Guest  at  the  Manor-House. : — A  Walk. — Conversation  with  Dame 

Darkmans. — Her  History. — Poverty  and  its  Effects, 61 

VIII.    The  Privilege  of  Genius. — Lester's  Satisfaction  at  the  Aspect  of  Events. — 

His  Conversation  with  Walter. — A  Discovery, 72 

IX.     The  State  of  Walter's   Mind.— An  Angler  and  a  Man  of  the  World.— A 

Companion  found  for  Walter, 77 

X.    The  Lovers. — The  Encounter  and  Quarrel  of  the  Rivals,        ....        82 

XI.  The  Family  Supper. — The  Two  Sisters  in  their  Chamber. — A  Misunder- 
standing followed  by  a  Confession. — Walter's  Approaching  Departure,  and 
the  Corporal's  Behavior  thereon. — The  Corporal  s  Favorite  introduced  to 
the  Reader. — The  Corporal  proves  himself  a  Subtle  Diplomatist,  .  .  90 
XII.  A  Strangle  Habit. — Walter's  Interview  with  Madeline. — Her  Generous  and 
Confiding  Disposition. — Walter's  Anger. — The  Parting  Meal. — Conversa- 
tion between  the  Uncle  and  Nephew. — Walter  Alone. — Sleep  the  Blessing 
of  the  Young, 103 

BOOK  II. 

I.     The  Marriage  Settled. — Lester's  Hopes  and  Schemes.— Gayety  of  Temper 

a-Good  Speculation. — The  Truth  and  Fervor  of  Aram's  Love,    .         .         .       112 
II.     A  Favorable  Specimen  of  a  Nobleman  and  a  Courtier. — A  Man  of  Some 

Faults  and  Many  Accomplishments, 114 

III.  Wherein  the  Earl  and  the  Student  Converse  on  Grave  but  Delightful  Mat- 

ters.— The  Student's  Notion  of  the  only  Earthly  Happiness,      .         .         .       118 

IV.  A    Deeper    Examination   into   the    Student's    Heart. — The   Visit   to    the 

Castle. — Philosophy  put  to  the  Trial, rei 

V.     In  which  the  Story  returns   to  Walter  and  the  Corporal. — The  Rencontre 
with   a  Stranger,  and   how  the  Stranger   proves  to   be  not  altogether  a 

Stranger, 131 

VI.    Sir  Peter  Displayed.— One  Man  of  the  World  Suffers  from  Another.— The 

.  Incident  of  the  Bridle  begets  the  Incident  of  the  Saddle  ; — The  Incident 

of  the  Saddle   begets   the  Incident   of  the  Whip  ;— The  Incident  of   the 

Whip  beg-ets  what  the  Reader  must  Read  to  See, 139 

VII.    Walter  visits  Another  of  his   Uncle's  Friends. — Mr.  Courtland's  Strange 
Complaint. — Walter  learns  News  of  his  Father,  which  Surprises    Him. — 
The  Change  in  his  Destination,      .........      143 

VIII.  Walter's  Meditations. — The  Corporal's  Grief  and  Anger. — The  Corporal 
Personally  Described. — An  Explanation  with  his  Master. — The  Corporal 
opens  himself  to  the  Young  Traveller. — His  Opinions  on  Love  ;  on  the 
World  ;  on  the  Pleasure  and  Respectability  of  Cheating  ;  on  Ladies — and 
a  Particular  Class  of  Ladies ;  on  Authors  ;  on  the  Value  of  Words  ;  on. 
Fighting  ;  'with  sundry  other  Matters  of  equal  Delectation  and  Improve- 
ment.— An  Unexpected  Event, 150 

BOOK  III. 

I,     Fraud  and  Violence  enter  even  Grassdale. — Peter's   News. — The   Lovers' 

Walk. — The  Reappearance,    .        .        .        -        .  .        .  x6j 

xiii 


XIV  CONTENTS. 

CHAP.  PACK 

II.     The  Interview  between  Aram  and  the  Stranger, 169 

III.  Fresh  Alarm  in  the  Village.— Lester's  Visit  to  Aram. — A  Trait  of  Delicate 

Kindness  in  the  Student. — Madeline. — Her  Proneness  to  Confide.  The 
Conversation  between  Lester  and  Aram. — The  Persons  by  whom  it  is  In- 
terrupted,   175 

IV.  Military  Preparations. — The  Commander  and  his  Men. — Aram  is  Persuaded 

to  pass  the  Night  at  the  Manor-House, 184 

V.  The  Sisters  Alone. — The  Gossip  of  Love. — An  Alarm,  and  an  Event,  .        .       187 

VI.  Aram   alone  among   the  Mountains. — His   Soliloquy   and    Project. — Scene 

between  Himself  and  Madeline, 194 

VII.  Aram's  Secret  Expedition. — A  Scene  worthy  the  Actors. — Aram's  Address 
and  Powers  of  Persuasion  or  Hypocrisy. — Their  Result. — A  Fearful 
Night. — Aram's  Solitary  Ride  Homeward. — Whom  he  Meets  by  the  Way, 
and  what  he  Sees,  ............  200 

BOOK  IV. 

I.     In  which  we  return  to  Walter. — His  Debt  of  Gratitude  to  Mr.  Pertinax 

Fillgrave. — The  Corporal's  Advice,  and  the  Corporal's  Victory,  .  .  216 
II.  New  Traces  of  the  Fate  of  Geoffrey  Lester. — Walter  and  the  Corporal  pro- 
ceed on  a  Fresh  Expedition. — The  Corporal  is  especially  Sagacious  on  the 
old  topic  of  the  World. — His  Opinions  on  the  Men  who  claim  Knowledge 
thereof ;  On  the  Advantages  Enjoyed  by  a  Valet  ;  On  the  Science  of  Suc- 
cessful Love  ;  on  Virtue  and  the  Constitution ;  on  Qualities  to  be  desired 
in  a  Mistress,  etc. — A  Landscape, 223 

III.  A  Scholar,  but  of  a  Different  Mould  from  the  Student   of  Grassdale.— New 

Particulars  concerning  Geoffrey  Lester. — The  Journey  Recommenced,       .      230 

IV.  Aram's   Departure. — Madeline. — Exaggeration    of    Sentiment    natural     in 

Love. —  Madeline's  Letter. — Walter's. — The  Walk. — Two  very  Different 
Persons,  yet  both  Inmates  of  the  Same  Country  Village. — The  Humors  of 
Life,  and  its  Dark  Passions,  are  found  in  Juxtaposition  everywhere,  .  .  238 
V.  A  Reflection  New  and  Strange. — The  Streets  of  London. — A  Great  Man's 
Library. — A  Conversation  between  the  Student  and  an  Acquaintance  of 
the  Reader's. — Its  Result, 251 

VI.    The  Thames  at  Night.— A  Thought.— The  Student  reseeks  the   Ruffian.— 

A  Human  Feeling  even  in  the  Worst  Soil, 254 

VII.     Madeline,  her  Hopes. — A  Mild  Autumn  Characterized. — A  Landscape. — A 

Return, 260 

VIII.     Affection  :    Its   Godlike    Nature.— The    Conversation   between  Aram  and 

Madeline.— The  Fatalist  forgets  Fate,    ,        .         .         .  .        .  _      .      264 

IX.  Walter  and  the  Corporal  on  the  Road. — The  Evening  sets  in. — The  Gipsy 
Tents. — Adventure  with  the  Horseman. — The  Corporal  Discomfited,  and 

the  Arrival  at  Knaresbro', 266 

X.  Walter's  Reflections. — Mine  Host. — A  Gentle  Character  and  a  Green  Old 
Age.— The  Garden,  and  that  which  it  Teacheth. — A  Dialogue  wherein 
new  Hints  towards  the  wished-for  Discovery  are  Suggested. — The  Curate. — 
A  Visit  to  a  Spot  of  deep  Interest  to  the  Adventurer, 274 

XI.  Grief  in  a  Ruffian. — The  Chamber  of  Early  Death. — A  Homely  yet  Momen- 
tous Confession. — The  Earth's  Secrets. — The  Cavern. — The  Accusation,  289' 

BOOK  V. 

I.    Grassdale.— The   Morning  of   the   Marriage.— The  Crones'   Gossip. — The 

Bride  at  her  Toilet.— The  Arrival, 298 

II.    The  Student  alone  in  his  Chamber.— The  Interruption.— Faithful  Love,      .      304 
III.     The  Justice. — The  Departure.— The  Equanimity  of  the  Corporal  in  Bear- 
ing the  Misfortunes  of  Other  People. — The  Examination  ;  Its   Result. — 
Aram's  Conduct  in  Prison. — The  Elasticity  of  our  Human   Nature. — A 
Visit  from  the  Earl. — Walter's  Determination. — Madeline.  .         .         .       314 

IV.    The  Evening  before  the  Trial.— The  Cousins.— The  Change  in  Madeline.— 

The  Family  of  Grassdale  meet  once  more  Beneath  one  Roof,      .        .        .      328 
V.    The  Trial 335 

VI.  The  Death.— The  Prison.— An  Interview.— Its  Result,          ...        .347 

VII.  The  Confession  ;  and  the  Fate .         .       353 

VIII.    The  Traveler's  Return. — The  Country  Village  once   more  Visited. — Its  In- 
habitants.— The  Remembered  Brook. — The  Deserted  Manor-house. — The 
Churchyard. — The    Traveller    Resumes    his    Journey. — The    Country 
Town. — A  Meeting  of  two  Lovers  after  Long  Absence  and   much  Sor- 
row.— Conclusion, 368 

ARAM,  a  Tragedy,      ............      37^ 


EUGENE    ARAM. 


BOOK  I. 

Ttt.  fov,  <t>ei-'  <j>pov£iv  uf  deivbv  ev6a  fit)  rficq 

7(.il£t  lf>pOVOVVTl. 

***** 
0«.  Ti  6'  lariv  ;  we  dttyuoc  £laeMjl.v6a£. 
T«.  *A0ff  fj.'  £f  O'IKOVS •  paara  yap  TO  a6v  re 
av  Acdyti  6ioiau  Tovpbv,  TJV  kfioi  niBrj. 

OED.  TYR.,  316-321. 

TEI.     Alas  !  alas  !  how  sad  it  is  to  be  wise,  when  it  is  not  advantageous 
to  him  who  is  so. 

******* 

OL.     But  what  is  the  cause  that  you  come  hither  sad  ? 
TEI.     Dismiss  me  to  my  house.     For  both  you  will  bear  your  fate  easier, 
and  I  mine,  if  you  take  my  advice. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  VILLAGE. ITS  INHABITANTS. — AN  OLD  MANOR-HOUSE,  AND 

AN  ENGLISH  FAMILY  J    THEIR  HISTORY,  INVOLVING  A  MYSTERI- 
OUS EVENT. 

"  Protected  by  the  divinity  they  adored,  supported  by  the  earth  which 
they  cultivated,  and  at  peace  with  themselves,  they  enjoyed  the  sweets  of 
life  without  dreading  or  desiring  dissolution." — NUMA  POMPILIUS. 

IN  the  county  of there  is  a  sequestered  hamlet,  which  I 

have  often  sought  occasion  to  pass,  and  which  I  have  never 
left  without  a  certain  reluctance  and  regret.  The  place,  in- 
deed, is  associated  with  the  memory  of  events  that  still  retain 
a  singular  and  fearful  interest,  but  the  scene  needs  not  the 
charm  of  legend  to  arrest  the  attention  of  the  traveller.  In 

17 


l8  EUGENE      ARAM. 

no  part  of  the  world  which  it  has  been  my  lot  to  visit,  have  I 
seen  a  landscape  of  more  pastoral  beauty.  The  hamlet,  to 
which  I  shall  here  give  the  name  of  Grassdale,  is  situated  in 
a  valley,  which,  for  about  the  length  of  a  mile,  winds  among 
gardens  and  orchards  laden  with  fruit,  between  two  chains  of 
gentle  and  fertile  hills. 

Here,  singly  or  in  pairs,  are  scattered  cottages,  which  be- 
speak a  comfort  and  a  rural  luxury  less  often  than  our  poets 
have  described  the  characteristics  of  the  English  peasantry. 
It  has  been  observed,  that  wherever  you  see  a  flower  in  a  cot- 
tage garden,  or  a  bird-cage  at  the  cottage  casement,  you  may 
feel  sure  that  the  inmates  are  better  and  wiser  than  their  neigh- 
bors ;  and  such  humble  tokens  of  attention  to  something  be- 
yond the  sterile  labor  of  life  were  (we  must  now  revert  to  the 
past)  to  be  remarked  in  almost  every  one  of  the  lowly  abodes  at 
Grassdale.  The  jasmine  here,  there  the  rose  or  honeysuckle, 
clustered  over  the  lattice  and  threshold,  not  so  wildly  as  to 
testify  negligence,  but  rather  to  sweeten  the  air  than  exclude 
the  light.  Each  of  the  cottages  possessed  at  its  rear  its  plot  of 
ground  apportioned  to  the  more  useful  and  nutritious  products 
of  nature  ;  while  the  greater  part  of  them  fenced  also  from  the 
unfrequented  road  a  little  spot  for  the  lupin,  the  sweet  pea,  the 
wallflower,  or  the  stock.  And  it  is  not  unworthy  of  remark, 
that  the  bees  came  in  greater  clusters  to  Grassdale  than  to  any 
other  part  of  that  rich  and  cultivated  district.  A  small  piece 
of  waste  land,  which  was  intersected  by  a  brook,  fringed  with 
ozier  and  dwarf  and  fantastic  pollards,  afforded  pasture  for  a 
few  cows  and  the  only  carrier's  solitary  horse.  The  stream  it- 
self was  of  no  ignoble  repute  among  the  gentle  craft  of  the 
Angle,  the  brotherhood  whom  our  associations  defend  in  the 
spite  of  our  mercy  ;  and  this  repute  drew  welcome  and  period- 
ical itinerants  to  the  village,  who  furnished  it  with  its  scanty 
news  of  the  great  world  without,  and  maintained  in  a  decor- 
ous custom  the  little  and  single  hostelry  of  the  place.  Not 
that  Peter  Dealtry,  the  proprietor  of  The  Spotted  Dog,  was 
altogether  contented  to  subsist  upon  the  gains  of  his  hospita- 
ble profession  ;  he  joined  thereto  the  light  cares  of  a  small 
farm,  held  under  a  wealthy  and  an  easy  landlord  ;  and  being 
moreover  honored  with  the  dignity  of  clerk  to  the  parish,  he 
was  deemed  by  his  neighbors  a  person  of  no  small  accomplish- 
ment, and  no  insignificant  distinction.  He  was  a  little,  dry, 
thin  man,  of  a  turn  rather  sentimental  than  jocose.  A  memory 
well  stored  with  fag-ends  of  psalms,  and  hymns  (which,  being 
less  familiar  than  the  psalms  to  the  ears  of  the  villagers,  were 


EUGENE     ARAM.  19 

more  than  suspected  to  be  his  own  composition),  often  gave 
a  poetic  and  semi- religious  coloring  to  his  conversation,  which 
accorded  rather  with  his  dignity  in  the  church  than  his  post 
at  The  Spotted  Dog.  Yet  he  disliked  not  his  joke,  though 
it  was  subtle  and  delicate  of  nature  ;  nor  did  he  disdain  to 
bear  companionship  over  his  own  liquor  with  guests  less  gifted 
and  refined. 

In  the  centre  of  the  village  you  chanced  upon  a  cottage 
which  had  been  lately  whitewashed,  where  a  certain  precise- 
ness  in  the  owner  might  be  detected  in  the  clipped  hedge,  and 
the  exact  and  newly  mended  style  by  which  you  approached 
the  habitation.  Herein  dwelt  the  beau  and  bachelor  of  the 
village,  somewhat  antiquated,  it  is  true,  but  still  an  object  of 
great  attention  and  some  hope  to  the  elder  damsels  in  the  vi- 
cinity, and  of  a  respectful  popularity  (that  did  not,  however, 
prohibit  a  joke)  among  the  younger.  Jacob  Bunting — so  was 
this  gentleman  called — had  been  for  many  years  in  the  king's 
service,  in  which  he  had  risen  to  the  rank  of  corporal,  and  had 
saved  and  pinched  together  a  certain  small  independence, 
upon  which  he  now  rented  his  cottage  and  enjoyed  his  leisure. 
He  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world,  and  profited  in  shrewd- 
ness by  his  experience  ;  he  had  rubbed  off,  however,  all  super- 
fluous devotion  as  he  rubbed  off  his  prejudices  ;  and  though 
he  drank  more  often  than  any  one  else  with  the  landlord  of 
The  Spotted  Dog,  there  was  not  a  wit  in  the  place  who  showed 
so  little  indulgence  to  the  publican's  segments  of  psalmody. 
Jacob  was  a  tall,  comely,  and  perpendicular  personage  ;  his 
threadbare  coat  was  scrupulously  brushed,  and  his  hair  punc- 
tiliously plastered  at  the  sides  into  two  stiff  obstinate-looking 
curls,  and  at  the  top  into  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  a  feather, 
though  it  was  much  more  like  a  tile.  His  conversation  had 
in  it  something  peculiar  :  generally  it  assumed  a  quick,  short, 
abrupt  turn,  that,  retrenching  all  superfluities  of  pronoun  and 
conjunction,  and  marching  at  once  upon  the  meaning  of  the 
sentence,  had  in  it  a  military  and  Spartan  significance,  which 
betrayed  how  difficult  it  often  is  for  a  man  to  forget  that  he 
has  been  a  corporal.  Occasionally,  indeed, — for  where  but  in 
farces  is  the  phraseology  of  the  humorist  always  the  same  ? — 
he  escaped  into  a  more  enlarged  and  Christianlike  method  of 
dealing  with  the  king's  English  ;  but  that  was  chiefly  noticeable 
when  from  conversation  he  launched  himself  into  lecture, — a 
luxury  the  worthy  soldier  loved  greatly  to  indulge,  for  much  had 
he  seen  and  somewhat  had  he  reflected  ;  and  valuing  himself, 
which  was  odd  in  a  corporal,  more  on  his  knowledge  of  the 


20  EUGENE     ARAM. 

world  than  his  knowledge  even  in  war,  he  rarely  missed  any 
occasion  of  edifying  a  patient  listener  with  the  result  of  his  ob- 
servations. 

After  you  had  sauntered  by  the  veteran's  door,  beside  which 
you  generally,  if  the  evening  were  fine,  or  he  was  not  drinking 
with  neighbor  Dealtry,  or  taking  his  tea  with  gossip  this  or 
master  that,  or  teaching  some  emulous  urchins  the  broadsword 
exercise,  or  snaring  trout  in  the  stream,  or,  in  short,  otherwise 
engaged — beside  which,  I  say,  you  not  unfrequently  beheld 
him  sitting  on  a  rude  bench,  and  enjoying  with  half-shut  eyes, 
crossed  legs,  but  still  unindulgently  erect  posture,  the  luxury 
of  his  pipe  ;  you  ventured  over  a  little  wooden  bridge,  beneath 
which,  clear  and  shallow,  ran  the  rivulet  we  have  before  hon- 
orably mentioned,  and  a  walk  of  a  few  minutes  brought  you  to 
a  moderately  sized  and  old-fashioned  mansion — the  manor- 
house  of  the  parish.  It  stood  at  the  very  foot  of  the  hill  ;  be- 
hind, a  rich,  ancient,  and  hanging  wood,  brought  into  relief 
the  exceeding  freshness  and  verdure  of  the  patch  of  green 
meadow  immediately  in  front.  On  one  side  the  garden  was 
bounded  by  the  village  churchyard,  with  its  simple  mounds, 
and  its  few  scattered  and  humble  tombs.  The  church  was  of 
great  antiquity  ;  and  it  was  only  in  one  point  of  view  that  you 
caught  more  than  a  glimpse  of  its  gray  tower  and  graceful 
spire,  so  thickly  and  so  darkly  grouped  the  yew-tree  and  the 
pine  around  the  edifice.  Opposite  the  gate  by  which  you 
gained  the  house,  the  view  was  not  extended,  but  rich  with 
wood  and  pasture,  backed  by  a  hill,  which,  less  verdant  than 
its  fellows,  was  covered  with  sheep  ;  while  you  saw,  hard  by, 
the  rivulet  darkening  and  stealing  away  till  your  sight,  though 
not  your  ear,  lost  it  among  the  woodland. 

Trained  up  the  embrowned  paling,  on  either  side  of  the  gate, 
were  bushes  of  rustic  fruit ;  and  fruit  and  flowers  (through 
plots  of  which  green  and  winding  alleys  had  been  cut  with  no 
untasteful  hand)  testified,  by  their  thriving  and  healthful  looks, 
the  care  bestowed  upon  them.  The  main  boasts  of  the  garden 
were,  on  the  one  side  a  huge  horse-chestnut  tree — the  largest  in 
the  village  ;  and  on  the  other,  an  arbor  covered  without  with 
honeysuckles,  and  tapestried  within  by  moss.  The  house,  a  gray 
and  quaint  building  of  the  time  of  James  I., with  stone  copings  and 
gable  roof,  could  scarcely  in  those  days  have  been  deemed  a  fitting 
residence  for  the  lord  of  the  manor.  Nearly  the  whole  of  the 
centre  was  occupied  by  the  hall,  in  which  the  meals  of  the  family 
were  commonly  held — only  two  other  sitting-rooms  of  very 
moderate  dimensions  had  been  reserved  by  the  architect  for 


EUGENE     ARAM.  21 

the  convenience  or  ostentation  of  the  proprietor.  An  ample 
porch  jutted  from  the  main  building,  and  this  was  covered  with 
ivy  as  the  sides  of  the  windows  were  with  jasmine  and  honey- 
suckle ;  while  seats  were  ranged  inside  the  porch  carved  with 
many  a  rude  initial  and  long-past  date. 

The  owner  of  this  mansion  bore  the  name  of  Rowland  Lester. 
His  forefathers,  without  pretending  to  high  antiquity  of  family, 
had  held  the  dignity  of  squires  of  Grassdale  for  some  two  cen- 
turies ;  and  Rowland  Lester  was  perhaps  the  first  of  the  race 
who  had  stiired  above  fifty  miles  from  the  house  in  which  each 
successive  lord  had  received  his  birth,  or  the  green  churchyard 
in  which  was  yet  chronicled  his  death.  The  present  proprietor 
was  a  man  of  cultivated  tastes  ;  and  abilities,  naturally  not 
much  above  mediocrity,  had  been  improved  by  travel  as  well 
as  study.  Himself  and  one  younger  brother  had  been  early 
left  masters  of  their  fate  and  their  several  portions.  The 
younger,  Geoffrey,  testified  a  roving  and  dissipated  turn. 
Bold,  licentious,  extravagant,  unprincipled,  his  career  soon 
outstripped  the  slender  fortunes  of  a  cadet  in  the  family  of  a 
country  squire.  He  was  early  thrown  into  difficulties,  but  by 
some  means  or  other  they  never  seemed  to  overwhelm  him  :  an 
unexpected  turn — a  lucky  adventure — presented  itself  at  the 
very  moment  when  Fortune  appeared  the  most  utterly  to  have 
deserted  him. 

Among  these  more  propitious  fluctuations  in  the  tide  of 
affairs,  was,  at  about  the  age  of  forty,  a  sudden  marriage  with 
a  young  lady  of  what  might  be  termed  (for  Geoffrey  Lester's 
rank  of  life,  and  the  rational  expenses  of  that  day)  a  very  com- 
petent and  respectable  fortune.  Unhappily,  however,  the  lady 
was  neither  handsome  in  feature  nor  gentle  in  temper  ;  and 
after  a  few  years  of  quarrel  and  contest,  the  faithless  husband, 
one  bright  morning,  having  collected  in  his  proper  person 
whatever  remained  of  their  fortune,  absconded  from  the  con- 
jugal hearth  without  either  warning  or  farewell.  He  left  noth- 
ing to  his  wife  but  his  house,  his  debts,  and  his  only  child,  a 
son.  From  that  time  to  the  present  little  had  been  known, 
though  much  had  been  conjectured,  concerning  the  deserter. 
For  the  first  few  years  they  traced,  however,  so  far  of  his  fate 
as  to  learn  that  he  had  been  seen  once  in  India  ;  and  that  pre- 
viously he  had  been  met  in  England  by  a  relation,  under  the 
disguise  of  assumed  names  :  a  proof  that,  whatever  his  occupa- 
tions, they  could  scarcely  be  very  respectable.  But,  of  late, 
nothing  whatsoever  relating  to  the  wanderer  had  transpired. 
By  some  he  was  imagined  dead  ;  by  most  he  was  forgotten. 


22  EUGENE     ARAM. 

Those  more  immediately  connected  with  him — his  brother  in 
especial — cherished  a  secret  belief,  that  wherever  Geoffrey 
Lester  should  chance  to  alight,  the  manner  of  alighting  would 
(to  use  the  significant  and  homely  metaphor)  be  always  on  his 
legs  :  and  coupling  the  wonted  luck  of  the  scapegrace  with  the 
fact  of  his  having  been  seen  in  India,  Rowland  in  his  heart  not 
only  hoped,  but  fully  expected,  that  the  lost  one  would,  some 
day  or  other,  return  home  laden  with  the  spoils  of  the  East, 
and  eager  to  shower  upon  his  relatives,  in  recompense  of  long 
desertion, 

"  With  richest  hand  ....  barbaric  pearl  and  gold." 

But  we  must  return  to  the  forsaken  spouse.  Left  in  this 
abrupt  destitution  and  distress,  Mrs.  Lester  had  only  the  re- 
source of  applying  to  her  brother-in-law,  whom  indeed  the  fugi- 
tive had  before  seized  many  opportunities  of  not  leaving  wholly 
unprepared  for  such  an  application.  Rowland  promptly  and 
generously  obeyed  the  summons  :  he  took  the  child  and  the 
wife  to  his  own  home  ;  he  freed  the  latter  from  the  persecu- 
tions of  all  legal  claimants  ;  and,  after  selling  such  effects  as 
remained,  he  devoted  the  whole  proceeds  to  the  forsaken 
family,  without  regarding  his  own  expenses  on  their  behalf,  ill 
as  he  was  able  to  afford  the  luxury  of  that  self-neglect.  The 
wife  did  not  long  need  the  asylum  of  his  hearth  ;  she,  poor 
lady,  died  of  a  slow  fever  produced  by  irritation  and  disap- 
pointment, a  few  months  after  Geoffrey's  desertion.  She  had 
no  need  to  recommend  her  child  to  his  kind-hearted  uncle's 
care.  And  now  we  must  glance  over  the  elder  brother's 
domestic  fortunes. 

In  Rowland  the  wild  dispositions  of  his  brother  were  so  far 
tamed,  that  they  assumed  only  the  character  of  a  buoyant 
temper  and  a  gay  spirit.  Ke  had  strong  principles  as  well  as 
warm  feelings,  and  a  fine  and  resolute  sense  of  honor  utterly 
impervious  to  attack.  It  was  impossible  to  be  in  his  company 
an  hour  and  not  see  that  he  was  a  man  to  be  respected.  It  was 
equally  impossible  to  live  with  him  a  week  and  not  see  that  he 
was  a  man  to  be  beloved.  He  also  had  married,  and  about  a 
year  after  that  era  in  the  life  of  his  brother,  but  not  for  the 
same  advantage  of  fortune.  He  had  formed  an  attachment  to 
the  portionless  daughter  of  a  man  in  his  own  neighborhood 
and  of  his  own  rank.  He  wooed  and  won  her,  and  for  a  few 
years  he  enjoyed  the  greatest  happiness  which  the  world  is 
capable  of  bestowing,  the  society  and  the  love  of  one  in  whom 
we  could  wish  for  no  change,  and  beyond  whom  we  have  no 


EUGENE    ARAM.  23 

desire.  But  what  Evil  cannot  corrupt,  Fate  seldom  spares.  A 
few  months  after  the  birth  of  a  second  daughter,  the  young 
wife  of  Rowland  Lester  died.  It  was  to  a  widowed  heart 
that  the  wife  and  child  of  his  brother  came  for  shelter.  Row- 
land was  a  man  of  an  affectionate  and  warm  heart  ;  if  the  blow 
did  not  crush,  at  least  it  changed  him.  Naturally  of  a  cheer- 
ful and  ardent  disposition,  his  mood  now  became  more  sober 
and  sedate.  He  shrunk  from  the  rural  gayeties  and  compan- 
ionship he  had  before  courted  and  enlivened,  and,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  the  mourner  felt  the  holiness  of  solitude.  As 
his  nephew  and  his  motherless  daughters  grew  up,  they  gave 
an  object  to  his  seclusion  and  a  relief  to  his  reflections.  He 
found  a  pure  and  unfailing  delight  in  watching  the  growth  of 
their  young  minds,  and  guiding  their  differing  dispositions; 
and  as  time  at  length  enabled  them  to  return  his  affection,  and 
appreciate  his  cares,  he  became  once  more  sensible  that  he  had 
a  HOME. 

The  elder  of  his  daughters,  Madeline,  at  the  time  our  story 
opens,  had  attained  the  age  of  eighteen.  She  was  the  beauty 
and  the  boast  of  the  whole  country.  Above  the  ordinary  height, 
her  figure  was  richly  and  exquisitely  formed.  So  translucently 
pure  and  soft  was  her  complexion,  that  it  might  have  seemed 
the  token  of  delicate  health,  but  for  the  dewy  redness  of  her 
lips,  and  the  freshness  of  teeth  whiter  than  pearls.  Her  eyes, 
of  a  deep  blue,  wore  a  thoughtful  and  serene  expression  ;  and 
her  forehead,  higher  and  broader  than  it  usually  is  in  women, 
gave  promise  of  a  certain  nobleness  of  intellect,  and  added  dig- 
nity, but  a  feminine  dignity,  to  the  more  tender  characteristics 
of  her  beauty.  And,  indeed,  the  peculiar  tone  of  Madeline's 
mind  fulfilled  the  indication  of  her  features,  and  was  eminently 
thoughtful  and  high-wrought.  She  had  early  testified  a  remark- 
able love  for  study,  and  not  only  a  desire  for  knowledge,  but  a 
veneration  for  those  who  possessed  it.  The  remote  corner  of 
the  country  in  which  they  lived,  and  the  rarely  broken  seclusion 
which  Lester  habitually  preserved  from  the  intercourse  of  their 
few  and  scattered  neighbors,  had  naturally  cast  each  member 
of  the  little  circle  upon  his  or  her  own  resources.  An  accident, 
some  five  years  ago,  had  confined  Madeline  for  several  weeks, 
or  rather  months,  to  the  house  ;  and  as  the  old  Hall  possessed 
a  very  respectable  share  of  books,  she  had  then  matured  and 
confirmed  that  love  for  reading  and  reflection  which  she  had 
at  a  yet  earlier  period  prematurely  evinced.  The  woman's 
tendency  to  romance  naturally  tinctured  her  meditations,  and 
thus,  while  they  dignified,  they  also  softened  her  mind.  Her 


44  EUGENE    ARAM. 

sister  Ellinor,  younger  by  two  years,  was  of  a  character  equally 
gentle,  but  less  elevated.  She  looked  up  to  her  sister  as  a 
superior  being.  She  felt  pride,  without  a  shadow  of  envy,  for 
Madeline's  superior  and  surpassing  beauty ;  and  was  uncon- 
sciously guided  in  her  pursuits  and  predilections  by  a  mind 
which  she  cheerfully  acknowledged  to  be  loftier  than  her  own. 
And  yet  Ellinor  had  also  her  pretensions  to  personal  loveliness, 
and  pretensions  perhaps  that  would  be  less  reluctantly  acknowl- 
edged by  her  own  sex  than  those  of  her  sister.  The  sunlight 
of  a  happy  and  innocent  heart  sparkled  on  her  face,  and  gave  a 
beam  it  gladdened  you  to  behold  to  her  quick  hazel  eye,  and  a 
smile  that  broke  out  from  a  thousand  dimples.  She  did  not 
possess  the  height  of  Madeline,  and  though  not  so  slender  as  to 
be  curtailed  of  the  roundness  and  feminine  luxuriance  of  beauty, 
her  shape  was  slighter,  feebler,  and  less  rich  in  its  symmetry 
than  her  sister's.  And  this  the  tendency  of  the  physical  frame 
to  require  elsewhere  support,  nor  to  feel  secure  of  strength, 
perhaps  influenced  her  mind,  and  made  love,  and  the  depend- 
ence of  love,  more  necessary  to  her  than  to  the  thoughtful  and 
lofty  Madeline.  The  latter  might  pass  through  life,  and  never 
see  the  one  to  whom  her  heart  could  give  itself  away.  But 
every  village  might  possess  a  hero  whom  the  imagination  of 
Ellinor  could  clothe  with  unreal  graces,  and  towards  whom  the 
lovingness  of  her  disposition  might  bias  her  affections.  Both, 
however,  eminently  possessed  that  earnestness  and  purity  of 
heart  which  would  have  made  them,  perhaps  in  an  equal  degree, 
constant  and  devoted  to  the  object  of  an  attachment  once 
formed,  in  defiance  of  change,  and  to  the  brink  of  death. 

Their  Cousin  Walter,  Geoffrey  Lester's  son,  was  now  in  his 
twenty-first  year ;  tall  and  strong  of  person,  and  with  a  face,  if 
not  regularly  handsome,  striking  enough  to  be  generally  deemed 
so.  High-spirited,  bold,  fiery,  impatient ;  jealous  of  the  affec- 
tions of  those  he  loved  ;  cheerful  to  outward  seeming,  but  rest- 
less, fond  of  change,  and  subject  to  the  melancholy  and  pining 
mood  common  to  young  and  ardent  minds:  such  was  the  char- 
acter of  Walter  Lester.  The  estates  of  Lester  were  settled  in 
the  male  line,  and  devolved  therefore  upon  him.  Yet  there 
were  moments  when  he  keenly  felt  his  orphan  and  deserted  sit- 
uation ;  and  sighed  to  think  that,  while  his  father  perhaps  yet 
lived,  he  was  a  dependent  for  affection,  if  not  for  maintenance, 
on  the  kindness  of  others.  This  reflection  sometimes  gave  an 
air  of  sullenness  or  petulance  to  his  character,  that  did  not 
really  belong  to  it.  For  what  in  the  world  makes  a  man  of  just 
pride  appear  so  unamiable  as  the  sense  of  dependence  ! 


EUGENE  'ARAM.  »5 

CHAPTER  II. 

A  PUBLICAN,  A  SINNER,  AND  A  STRANGER. 

.     "  Ah,  Don  Alphonso,  is  it  you  ?    Agreeable  accident !     Chance  presents 
you  to  my  eyes  where  you  were  least  expected." — Gil  Bias. 

IT  was  an  evening  in  the  beginning  of  summer,  and  Peter 
Dealtry  and  the  ci-devant  corporal  sat  beneath  the  sign  of  The 
Spotted  Dog  (as  it  hung  motionless  from  the  bough  of  a 
friendly  elm),  quaffing  a  cup  of  boon  companionship.  The 
reader  will  imagine  the  two  men  very  different  from  each  other 
in  form  and  aspect ;  the  one  short,  dry,  fragile,  and  betraying 
a  love  of  ease  in  his  unbuttoned  vest,  and  a  certain  lolling,  see- 
sawing method  of  balancing  his  body  upon  his  chair  ;  the  other, 
erect  and  solemn,  and  as  steady  on  his  seat  as  if  he  were  nailed 
to  it.  It  was  a  fine,  tranquil,  balmy  evening  ;  the  sun  had  just 
set,  and  the  clouds  still  retained  the  rosy  tints  which  they  had 
caught  from  its  parting  ray.  Here  and  there,  at  scattered  in- 
tervals, you  might  see  the  cottages  peeping  from  the  trees 
around  them  ;  or  mark  the  smoke  that  rose  from  their  roofs — 
roofs  green  with  mosses  and  house-leek — in  graceful  and  spiral 
curls  against  the  clear  soft  air.  It  was  an  English  scene,  and 
the  two  men,  the  dog  at  their  feet  (for  Peter  Dealtry  favored  a 
wiry  stone-colored  cur,  which  he  called  a  terrier),  and  just  at 
the  door  of  the  little  inn,  two  old  gossips,  loitering  on  the 
threshold,  in  familiar  chat  with  the  landlady  in  cap  and  ker- 
chief,— all  together  made  a  group  equally  English,  and  some- 
what picturesque,  though  homely  enough,  in  effect. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Peter  Dealtry,  as  he  pushed  the  brown  jug 
towards  the  corporal,  "  this  is  what  I  call  pleasant ;  it  puts  me 
in  mind — " 

"Of  what  ?  "  quoth  the  corporal. 

"  Of  those  nice  lines  in  the  hymn,  Master  Bunting  : 

'  How  fair  ye  are,  ye  little  hills  : 
Ye  little  fields  also  : 

Ye  murmuring'  streams  that  sweetly  run  ; 
Ye  willows  in  a  row  ! ' 

There  is  something  very  comfortable  in  sacred  verses,  Master 
Bunting  :  but  you're  a  scoffer." 

"  Psha,  man  !  "  said  the  corporal,  throwing  out  his  right  leg 
and  leaning  back  with  his  eyes  half  shut,  and  his  chin  pro- 
truded, as  he  took  an  unusually  long  inhalation  from  his  pipe. 


26  EUGENE*    ARAM. 

"  Psha,  man  !  send  verses  to  the  right-about — fit  for  girls 
going  to  school  of  a  Sunday  ;  full-grown  men  more  up  to  snuff. 
I've  seen  the  world,  Master  Dealtry  ;  the  world,  and  be  d — d 
to  you  !  Augh  !  " 

"  Fie,  neighbor,  fie  !  What's  the  good  of  profaneness,  evil 
speaking,  and  slandering  ? 

'  Oaths  are  the  debts  your  spendthrift  soul  must  pay  ; 
All  scores  are  chalk'd  against  the  reckoning  day.' 

Just  wait  a  bit,  neighbor  ;    wait  till  I  light  my  pipe." 

"  Tell  you  what,"  said  the  corporal,  after  he  had  communi- 
cated from  his  own  pipe  the  friendly  flame  to  his  comrade's  ; 
"  tell  you  what — talk  nonsense  ;  the  commander-in'chief's  no 
martinet — if  we're  all  right  in  action,  he'll  wink  at  a  slip  word 
or  two.  Come,  no  humbug — hold  jaw.  D'ye  think  God  would 
sooner  have  a  snivelling  fellow  like  you  in  his  regiment,  than  a 
man  like  me,  clean-limbed,  straight  as  a  dart,  six  fett  one 
without  his  shoes  ?  Baugh  !  " 

This  notion  of  the  corporal's,  by  which  he  would  have  lik- 
ened the  dominion  of  Heaven  to  the  King  of  Prussia's  body- 
guard, and  only  admitted  the  elect  on  account  of  their  inches, 
so  tickled  mine  host's  fancy,  that  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
and  indulged  in  a  long,  dry,  obstreperous  cachinnation.  This 
irreverence  mightily  displeased  the  corporal.  He  looked  at 
the  little  man  very  sourly,  and  said  in  his  least  smooth  accen- 
tuation : 

"  What — devil — cackling  at  ?  Always  grin,  grin,  grin — giggle, 
giggle,  giggle— psha  !  " 

"  Why  really,  neighbor,"  said  Peter,  composing  himself,  "you 
must  let  a  man  laugh  now  and  then." 

"  Man  !  "said the  corporal  ;  " mans  a  noble  animal  !  Man's 
a  musket,  primed,  loaded,  ready  to  save  a  friend  or  kill  a  foe — 
charge  not  to  be  wasted  on  every  torn-tit.  But  you  !  not  a 
musket,  but  a  cracker!  noisy,  harmless,  can't  touch  you,  but 
off  you  go,  whizz,  pop,  bang  in  one's  face  !  Baugh  !  " 

"  Well  !  "  said  the  good-humored  landlord,  "  I  should  think 
Master  Aram,  the  great  scholar  who  lives  down  the  vale  yon- 
der, a  man  quite  after  your  own  heart.  He  is  grave  enough  to 
suit  you.  He  does  not  laugh  very  easily,  I  fancy." 

"  After  my  heart  ?     Stoops  like  a  bow  !  " 

"  Indeed  he  does  look  on  the  ground  when  he  walks  ;  when 
I  think,  I  do  the  same.  But  what  a  marvellous  man  it  is  !  I 
hear  that  he  reads  the  Psalms  in  Hebrew.  He's  very  affable 
and  meek-like  for  such  ascholard." 


EUGENE      ARAM.  2J 

"  Tell  you  what.  Seen  the  world,  Master  Dealtry,  and  know 
a  thing  or  two.  Your  shy  dog  is  always  a  deep  one.  Give  me 
a  man  who  looks  me  in  the  face  as  he  would  a  cannon  !  " 

"  Or  a  lass,"  said  Peter  knowingly. 

The  grim  corporal  smiled. 

"  Talking  of  lasses,"  said  the  soldier,  re-filling  his  pipe, 
"what  creature  Miss  Lester  is  !  Such  eyes  !  such  nose!  Fit 
for  a  colonel,  by  Gad  !  ay,  or  a  major-general  !  " 

"  For  my  part,  I  think  Miss  Ellinor  almost  as  handsome  ;  not 
so  grand-like,  but  more  lovesome." 

"  Nice  little  thing !  "  said  Lie  corporal  condescendingly.  "  But 
zooks  !  whom  have  we  here  ?" 

This  last  question  was  applied  to  a  man  who  was  slowly  turning 
from  the  road  towards  the  inn.  The  stranger,  for  such  he  was, 
was  stout,  thick-set,  and  of  middle  height.  His  dress  was  not 
without  pretension  to  a  rank  higher  than  the  lowest  ;  but  it  was 
threadbare  and  worn,  and  soiled  with  dust  and  travel.  His  ap- 
pearance was  by  no  means  prepossessing  ;  small  sunken  eyes 
of  a  light  hazel,  and  a  restless  and  rather  fierce  expression  ;  a 
thick  flat  nose,  high  cheek-bones,  a  large  bony  jaw  from  which 
the  flesh  receded,  and  a  bull  throat  indicative  of  great 
strength,  constituted  his  claims  to  personal  attraction.  The 
stately  corporal,  without  moving,  kept  a  vigilant  and  suspicious 
eye  upon  the  new  comer,  muttering  to  Peter  :  "  Customer  for 
you  ;  rum  customer  too,  by  Gad  !  " 

The  stranger  now  reached  the  little  table,  and  halting  short 
took  up  the  brown  jug,  without  ceremony  or  preface,  and 
emptied  it  at  a  draught. 

The  corporal  stared — the  corporal  frowned  ;  but  before — 
for  he  was  somewhat  slow  of  speech — he  had  time  to  vent  his 
displeasure,  the  stranger,  wiping  his  mouth  with  his  sleeve, 
said,  in  rather  a  civil  and  apologetic  tone  : 

"  I  beg  pardon,  gentlemen.  I  have  had  a  long  march  of  it, 
and  very  tired  I  am." 

"  Humph  !  march  !  "  said  the  corporal,  a  little  appeased  : 
''  not  in  his  Majesty's  service — eh  ?  " 

"  Not  now,"  answered  the  traveller  ;  then,  turning  round  to 
Dealtry,  he  said  :  "  Are  you  landlord  here  ?" 

"  At  your  service,"  said  Peter,  with  the  indifference  of  a  man 
well-to-do,  and  not  ambitious  of  halfpence. 

"  Come,  then,  quick — budge,"  said  the  traveller,  tapping  him 
on  the  back  :  ''  bring  more  glasses — another  jug  of  the  Octo- 
ber ;  and  anything  or  everything  your  larder  is  able  to  pro- 
duce ;  d'ye  hear  ?  " 


28  EUGENE      ARAM. 

Peter,  by  no  means  pleased  with  the  briskness  of  this  address, 
eyed  the  dusty  and  wayworn  pedestrian  from  head  to  foot ; 
then,  looking  over  his  shoulder  towards  the  door,  he  said,  as  he 
ensconced  himself  yet  more  firmly  on  his  seat  : 

"  There's  my  wife  by  the  door,  friend ;  go,  tell  her  what  you 
want." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  the  traveller,  in  a  slow  and  measured 
accent  :  "  Do  you  know,  Master  Shrivel-face,  that  I  have  more 
than  half  a  mind  to  break  your  head  for  impertinence  ?  You 
a  landlord !  You  keep  an  inn,  indeed  !  Come,  sir,  make  off, 
or—" 

"Corporal  !  corporal  !  "  cried  Peter,  retreating  hastily  from 
his  seat  as  the  brawny  traveller  approached  menacingly  to- 
wards him  :  "You  won't  see  the  peace  broken.  Have  a  care, 
friend,  have  a  care.  I'm  clerk  to  the  parish — clerk  to  the  par- 
ish, sir — and  I'll  indict  you  for  sacrilege." 

The  wooden  features  of  Bunting  relaxed  into  a  sort  of  grin 
at  the  alarm  of  his  friend.  He  puffed  away  without  making 
any  reply  ;  meanwhile  the  traveller,  taking  advantage  of  Peter's 
hasty  abandonment  of  his  cathedrarian  accommodation,  seized 
the  vacant  chair,  and  drawing  it  yet  closer  to  the  table,  flung 
himself  upon  it,  and  placing  his  hat  on  the  table,  wiped  his 
brows  with  the  air  of  a  man  about  to  make  himself  thoroughly 
at  home. 

Peter  Dealtry  was  assuredly  a  personage  of  peaceable  dispo- 
sition ;  but  then  he  had  the  proper  pride  of  a  host  and  a  clerk. 
His  feelings  were  exceedingly  wounded  at  this  cavalier  treat- 
ment :  before  the  very  eyes  of  his  wife,  too  !  What  an  exam- 
ple !  He  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his  breeches'  pockets,  and 
strutting  with  a  ferocious  swagger  towards  the  traveller,  he  said  : 

"  Harkye,  sirrah  !  This  is  not  the  way  folks  are  treated  in 
this  country  :  and  I'd  have  you  to  know,  that  I'm  a  man  what 
has  a  brother  a  constable." 

"  Well,  sir  !  " 

"  Well,  sir,  indeed  !  Well !  Sir,  it's  not  well,  by  no  manner 
of  means  ;  and  if  you  don't  pay  for  the  ale  you  drank,  and  go 
quietly  about  your  business,  I'll  have  you  put  in  the  stocks  for 
a  vagrant." 

This,  the  most  menacing  speech  Peter  Dealtry  was  ever 
known  to  deliver,  was  uttered  with  so  much  spirit,  that  the 
corporal,  who  had  hitherto  preserved  silence — for  he  was  too 
strict  a  disciplinarian  to  thrust  himself  unnecessarily  into 
brawls, — turned  approvingly  round,  and  nodding  as  well 
as  his  stock  would  suffer  him  at  the  indignant  Peter,  he  said, 


EUGENE     ARAM.  29 

'Well  done  !  fegs — you've  a  soul,  man  ! — a  soul  fit  for  the 
Forty-second  !  Augh  !  A  soul  above  the  inches  of  five  feet 
two!  " 

There  was  something  bitter  and  sneering  in  the  traveller's 
aspect  as  he  now,  regarding  Dealtry,  repeated  : 

"  Vagrant !  humph  !     And  pray,  what  is  a  vagrant  ?  " 

"  What  is  a  vagrant  ? "  echoed  Peter,  a  little  puzzled. 

"Yes  !  answer  me  that." 

"  Why,  a  vagrant  is  a  man  what  wanders,  and  what  has  no 
money." 

"Truly,"  said  the  stranger  smiling,  but  the  smile  by  no 
means  improved  his  physiognomy,  "an  excellent  definition  ; 
but  one  which,  I  will  convince  you,  does  not  apply  to  me."  So 
saying,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  handful  of  silver  coins,  and 
throwing  them  on  the  table,  added:  "Come,  let's  have  no 
more  of  this.  You  see  I  can  pay  for  what  I  order  ;  and  now, 
do  recollect  that  I  am  a  weary  and  hungry  man." 

No  sooner  did  Peter  behold  the  money,  than  a  sudden  pla- 
cidity stole  over  his  ruffled  spirit  ;  nay,  a  certain  benevolent 
commiseration  for  the  fatigue  and  wants  of  the  traveller  re- 
placed at  once,  and  as  by  a  spell,  the  angry  feelings  that  had 
previously  roused  him. 

"Weary  and  hungry,"  said  he  ;  "Why  did  not  you  say  that 
before  ?  That  would  have  been  quite  enough  for  Peter  Deal- 
try.  Thank  heaven  !  I  am  a  man  what  can  feel  for  my  neigh- 
bors. I  have  bowels — yes,  I  have  bowels.  Weary  and  hungry  ! 
You  shall  be  served  in  an  instant.  I  may  be  a  little  hasty  or  so, 
but  I'm  a  good  Christian  at  bottom — ask  the  corporal. 
And  what  says  the  the  Psalmist,  Psalm  147  ? 

'  By  Him,  the  beasts  that  loosely  range 

With  timely  food  are  fed  : 
He  speaks  the  word — and  what  he  wills 
Is  done  as  soon  as  said.' " 

Animating  his  kindly  emotions  by  this  apt  quotation,  Peter 
turned  to  the  house.  The  corporal  now  broke  silence  :  the 
sight  of  the  money  had  not  been  without  an  effect  upon  him  as 
well  as  the  landlord. 

"  Warm  day,  sir — your  health.  Oh  !  forgot  you  emptied 
jug — baugh  !  You  said  you  were  not  now  in  his  Majesty's  ser- 
vice :  beg  pardon,  were  you  ever  ? " 

"  Why,  once  I  was     many  years  ago." 

"Ah  !  And  what  regiment  ?  I  was  in  the  Forty-second. 
Heard  of  the  Forty-second?  Colonel's  name  Dysart  ;  captain's 
Trotter  ;  corporal's,  Bunting,  at  your  service." 


30  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  by  your  confidence,"  said  the  traveller 
drily.  "  I  dare  say  you  have  seen  much  service." 

"  Service  !  Ah  !  may  well  say  that — twenty-three  years' 
hard  work  ;  and  not  the  better  for  it  !  A  man  that  loves  his 
country  is  'titled  to  a  pension  ;  that's  my  mind  !  But  the 
world  don't  smile  upon  corporals — augh  .'  " 

Here  Peter  reappeared  with  a  fresh  supply  of  the  October, 
and  an  assurance  that  the  cold  meat  would  speedily  follow. 

"  I  hope  yourself  and  this  gentleman  will  bear  me  company," 
said  the  traveller,  passing  the  jug  to  the  corporal  ;  and  in  a 
few  moments,  so  well  pleased  grew  the  trio  with  each  other, 
that  the  sound  of  their  laughter  came  loud  and  frequent  to  the 
ears  of  the  good  housewife  within. 

The  traveller  now  seemed  to  the  corporal  and  mine  host  a 
right  jolly,  good-humored  fellow.  Not,  however,  that  he  bore 
a  fair  share  in  the  conversation  ;  he  rather  promoted  the  hilar- 
ity of  his  new  acquaintances  than  led  it.  He  laughed  heartily 
at  Peter's  jests,  and  the  corporal's  repartees  ;  and  the  latter  by 
degrees  assuming  the  usual  sway  he  bore  in  the  circles  of  the 
village,  contrived,  before  the  viands  were  on  the  table,  to  mo- 
nopolize the  whole  conversation. 

The  traveller  found  in  the  repast  a  new  excuse  for  silence. 
He  ate  with  a  most  prodigious  and  most  contagious  appetite  ; 
and  in  a  few  seconds  the  knife  and  fork  of  the  corporal  were 
as  busily  engaged  as  if  he  had  only  three  minutes  to  spare  be- 
tween a  march  and  a  dinner. 

"  This  is  a  pretty  retired  spot,"  quoth  the  traveller,  as  at  length 
he  finished  his  repast,  and  threw  himself  back  on  his  chair — "a 
very  pretty  spot.  Whose  neat  old-fashioned  house  was  that  I 
passed  on  the  green,  with  the  gable-ends  and  the  flower-pots 
in  front  ?  " 

"Oh,  the  squire's,"  answered  Peter.  "Squire  Lester's,  an 
excellent  gentleman." 

"  A  rich  man,  I  should  think,  for  these  parts ;  the  best  house 
I  have  seen  for  some  miles,"  said  the  stranger  carelessly. 

"  Rich  !  Yes,  he  is  well-to-do  ;  he  does  not  live  so  as  not  to 
have  money  to  lay  by." 

"  Any  family?" 

"  Two  daughters  and  a  nephew." 

"And  the  nephew  does  not  ruin  him?  Happy  uncle  !  Mine 
was  not  so  lucky  !  "  said  the  traveller. 

"  Sad  fellows  we  soldiers  in  our  young  days  !  "  observed  the 
corporal  with  a  wink.  "  No,  Squire  Walter's  a  good  young 
man,  a  pride  to  his  uncle !  " 


EUGENE      ARAM.  31 

"So,"  said  the  pedestrian,  "they  are  not  forced  to  keep  up 
a  large  establishment  and  ruin  themselves  by  a  retinue  of 
servants  ?  Corporal,  the  jug." 

"  Nay  !  "  said  Peter,  "  Squire  Lester's  gate  is  always  open  to 
the  poor ;  but  as  for  show,  he  leaves  that  to  my  lord  at  the 
castle." 

"  The  castle  !  where's  that  ?  " 

"About  six  miles  off  ;  you've  heard  of  my  Lord ,  I'll 

swear." 

"Ay,  to  be  sure — a  courtier.  But  who  else  lives  about  here? 
I  mean,  who  are  the  principal  persons,  barring  the  corporal 
and  yourself — Mr.  Eelpry,  I  think  our  friend  here  calls  you." 

"  Dealtry,  Peter  Dealtry,  sir,  is  my  name.  Why,  the  most 
noticeable  man,  you  must  know,  is  a  great  scholard,  a  wonder- 
fully learned  man  ;  there  yonder,  you  may  just  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  tall  what-d'ye-call-it  he  has  built  out  on  the  top  of  his 
house,  that  he  may  get  nearer  to  the  stars.  He  has  got  glasses 
by  which  I've  heard  that  you  may  see  the  people  in  the  moon 
walking  on  their  heads  ;  but  I  can't  say  as  I  believe  all  I  hear." 

"  You  are  too  sensible  for  that,  I'm  sure.  But  this  scholar, 
I  suppose,  is  not  very  rich  ;  learning  does  not  clothe  men 
nowadays — eh,  corporal  ?  " 

"  And  why  should  it  ?  Zounds,  can  it  teach  a  man  how  to 
defend  his  country  ?  Old  England  wants  soldiers,  and  be  d — d 
to  them  !  But  the  man's  well  enough,  I  must  own,civil,modest — " 

"And  not  by  no  means  a  beggar,"  added  Peter  ;  "he  gave 
as  much  to  the  poor  last  winter  as  the  squire  himself." 

"Indeed,"  said  the  stranger  ;  "this  scholar  is  rich,  then?  " 

"So,  so  ;  neither  one  nor  t'other.  But  if  he  were  as  rich  as 
my  lord,  he  could  not  be  more  respected  ;  the  greatest  folks 
in  the  country  come  in  their  carriages  and  four  to  see  him. 
Lord  bless  you  !  there  is  not  a  name  more  talked  on  in  the 
whole  county  than  Eugene  Aram." 

"  What ! "  cried  the  traveller,  his  countenance  changing  as 
he  sprang  from  his  seat ;  "  What  !  Aram  !  Did  you  say 
Aram  ?  Great  God  !  how  strange !  " 

Peter,  not  a  little  startled  by  the  abruptness  and  vehemence 
of  his  guest,  stared  at  him  with  open  mouth,  and  even  the 
corporal  involuntarily  took  his  pipe  from  his  lips. 

"  What !  "  said  the  former,  "  you  know  him,  do  you  ?  You've 
heard  of  him,  eh  ?" 

The  stranger  did  not  reply  ;  he  seemed  lost  in  a  revery  ;  he 
muttered  inaudible  words  between  his  teeth  ;  now  he  strode 
two  steps  forward,  clenching  his  hands ;  r.o\v  smiled  grimly ; 


32  EUGENE      ARAM. 

and  then  returning  to  his  seat,  threw  himself  on  it,  still  in 
silence.  The  soldier  and  the  clerk  exchanged  looks,  and  now 
outspake  the  corporal : 

"  Rum  tantrums !  What  the  devil  !  did  the  man  eat  your 
grandmother  ? " 

Roused  perhaps  by  so  pertinent  and  sensible  a  question,  the 
stranger  lifted  his  head  from  his  breast,  and  said  with  a  forced 
smile :  "  You  have  done  me,  without  knowing  it,  a  great 
kindness,  my  friend.  Eugene  Aram  was  an  early  and  intimate 
acquaintance  of  mine  ;  we  have  not  met  for  many  years.  I 
never  guessed  that  he  lived  in  these  parts  ;  indeed  I  did  not 
know  where  he  resided.  I  am  truly  glad  to  think  I  have 
lighted  upon  him  thus  unexpectedly."- 

"  What !  you  did  not  know  where  he  lived  ?  Well,  I  thought 
all  the  world  knew  that !  Why,  men  from  the  univarsities 
have  come  all  the  way  merely  to  look  at  the  spot." 

"  Very  likely,"  returned  the  stranger  ;  "  but  I  am  not  a  learned 
man  myself,  and  what  is  celebrity  in  one  set  is  obscurity  in 
another.  Besides,  I  have  never  been  in  this  part  of  the  world 
before  !  " 

Peter  was  about  to  reply,  when  he  heard  the  shrill  voice  of 
his  wife  behind. 

"  Why  don't  you  rise,  Mr.  Lazyboots  ?  Where  are  your 
eyes  ?  Don't  you  see  the  young  ladies?  " 

Dealtry's  hat  was  off  in  an  instant, — the  stiff  corporal  rose 
like  a  musket;  the  stranger  would  have  kept  his  seat,  .but 
Dealtry  gave  him  an  admonitory  tug  by  the  collar  ;  accordingly 
he  rose,  muttered  a  hasty  oath,  which  certainly  died  on  his  lips 
when  he  saw  the  cause  which  had  thus  constrained  him  into 
courtesy. 

Through  a  little  gate  close  by  Peter's  house  Madeline  and 
her  sister  had  just  passed  on  their  evening  walk,  and  with  the 
kind  familiarity  for  which  they  were  both  noted,  they  had 
stopped  to  salute  the  landlady  of  The  Spotted  Dog,  as  she  now, 
her  labors  done,  sat  by  the  threshold,  within  hearing  of  the 
convivial  group,  and  plaiting  straw.  The  whole  family  of 
Lester  were  so  beloved  that  we  question  whether  my  lord  him- 
self, as  the  great  nobleman  of  the  place  was  always  called  (as 
if  there  were  only  one  lord  in  the  peerage),  would  have  ob- 
tained the  same  degree  of  respect  that  was  always  lavished 
upon  them. 

"  Don't  let  us  disturb  you,  good  people,"  said  Ellinor,  as 
they  now  moved  towards  the  boon  companions  ;  when  her  eye 
suddenly  falling  on  the  stranger,  she  stopped  short.  There 


EUGENE     ARAM.  33 

was  something  in  his  appearance,  and  especially  in  the  ex- 
pression of  his  countenance  at  that  moment,  which  no  one 
could  have  marked  for  the  first  time  without  apprehension  and 
distrust  ;  and  it  was  so  seldom  that,  in  that  retired  spot,  the 
young  ladies  encountered  even  one  unfamiliar  face,  that  the 
effect  the  stranger's  appearance  might  have  produced  on  any 
one  might  well  be  increased  for  them  to  a  startling  and  pain- 
ful degree.  The  traveller  saw  at  once  the  sensation  he  had 
created  ;  his  brow  lowered,  and  the  same  unpleasant  smile,  or 
rnther  sneer,  that  we  had  noted  before,  distorted  his  lip,  as 
with  affected  humility  he  made  his  obeisance. 

"  How  !  A  stranger  !  "  said  Madeline,  sharing,  though  in  a 
less  degree,  the  feelings  of  her  sister  ;  and  then,  after  a  pause, 
she  said,  as  she  glanced  over  his  garb,  "  not  in  distress,  I 
hope?" 

"  No,  madam  !  "  said  the  stranger  ;  "if  by  distress  is  meant 
beggary,  I  am  in  all  respects,  perhaps,  better  than  I  seem." 

There  was  a  general  titter  from  the  corporal,  my  host,  and 
his  wife,  at  the  traveller's  semi-jest  at  his  own  unprepossessing 
appearance  ;  but  Madeline,  a  little  disconcerted,  bowed  hastily, 
and  drew  her  sister  away. 

"  A  proud  quean  ! "  said  the  stranger,  as  he  reseated  himself 
and  watched  the  sisters  gliding  across  the  green. 

All  mouths  were  opened  against  him  immediately.  He  found 
it  no  easy  matter  to  make  his  peace,  and  before  he  had  quite 
done  it,  he  called  for  his  bill,  and  rose  to  depart. 

"  Well  !  "  said  he,  as  he  tendered  his  hand  to  the  corporal, 
"  we  may  meet  again,  and  enjoy  together  some  more  of  your 
good  stories.  Meanwhile,  which  is  my  way  to  this — this — fa- 
mous scholar's  ?  Ehem  !  " 

"Why,"  quoth  Peter,  "you  saw  the  direction  in  which  the 
young  ladies  went  ;  you  must  take  the  same.  Cross  the  stile 
you  will  find  at  the  right  ;  wind  along  the  foot  of  the  hill  for 
about  three  parts  of  a  mile,  and  you  will  then  see  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  broad  plain  a  lonely  gray  house,  with  a  thingumbob  at 
the  top  ;  a  servatory  they  call  it.  That's  Master  Aram's." 

"  Thank  you." 

"And  a  very  pretty  walk  it  is,  too,"  said  the  dame,  "the 
prettiest  hereabouts  to  my  liking,  till  you  get  to  the  house  at 
least  ;  and  so  the  young  ladies  think,  for  it's  their  usual  walk 
every  evening  !  " 

"  Humph, — then  I  may  meet  them." 

"Well,  and  if  you  do,  make  yourself  look  as  Christian-like  as 
you  can,"  retorted  the  hostess. 


34  EUGENE     ARAM. 

There  was  a  second  grin  at  the  ill-favored  traveller's  ex- 
pense,  amidst  which  he  went  his  way. 

"  An  odd  chap  !  "  said  Peter,  looking  after  the  sturdy  form 
of  the  traveller.  "  I  wonder  what  he  is  ;  he  seems  well  edi- 
cated — makes  use  of  good  words." 

"  What  sinnifies,"  said  the  corporal,  who  felt  a  sort  of  fellow- 
feeling  for  his  new  acquaintance's  bluffness  of  manner  ;  "what 
sinnifies  what  he  is  ?  Served  his  country, — that's  enough  ; 
never  told  me,  by  the  by,  his  regiment  ;  set  me  a  talking,  and 
let  out  nothing  himself  ;  old  soldier,  every  inch  of  him  !  " 

"  He  can  take  care  of  number  one,"  said  Peter.  "  How  he 
emptied  the  jug  !  and,  my  stars  !  what  an  appetite  !  " 

"  Tush,"  said  the  corporal,  "hold  jaw.  Man  of  the  world — 
man  of  the  world — that's  clear." 


CHAPTER  III. 

A   DIALOGUE    AND    AN    ALARM. — A   STUDENT'S   HOUSE. 

"  A  fellow  by  the  hand  of  Nature  marked, 
Quoted,  and  signed,  to  do  a  deed  of  shame." 

— SHAKSPEARE  :  King  John. 

*  *  *  * 

"  He  is  a  scholar,  if  a  man  may  trust 
The  liberal  voice  of  Fame,  in  her  report. 

*  *  *  * 
Myself  was  once  a  student,  and  indeed 
Fed  with  the  self-same  humor  he  is  now." 

— BEN  JONSON  :  Every  Man  in  his  Humor. 

THE  two  sisters  pursued  their  walk  along  a  scene  which 
might  well  be  favored  by  their  selection.  No  sooner  had  they 
crossed  the  stile  than  the  village  seemed  vanished  into  earth  ; 
so  quiet,  so  lonely,  so  far  from  the  evidence  of  life  was  the 
landscape  through  which  they  passed.  On  their  right  sloped 
a  green  and  silent  hill,  shutting  out  all  view  beyond  itself,  save 
the  deepening  and  twilight  sky  ;  to  the  left,  and  immediately 
along  their  road,  lay  fragments  of  stone,  covered  with  moss,  or 
shadowed  by  wild  shrubs,  that  here  and  there  gathered  into 
copses,  or  breaking  abruptly  away  from  the  rich  sod,  left  fre- 
quent spaces  through  which  you  caught  long  vistas  of  forest- 
land,  or  the  brooklet  gliding  in  a  noisy  and  rocky  course,  and 
breaking  into  a  thousand  tiny  waterfalls  or  mimic  eddies.  So 
secluded  was  the  scene,  and  so  unwitnessing  of  cultivation 


EUGENE     *RAM.  35 

that  you  would  not  have  believed  that  a  human  habitation 
could  be  at  hand,  and  this  air  of  perfect  solitude  and  quiet 
gave  an  additional  charm  to  the  spot. 

"But  I  assure  you,"  said  Ellinor,  earnestly  continuing  a  con- 
versation they  had  begun.  "  I  assure  you  I  was  not  mistaken  : 
I  saw  it  as  plainly  as  I  see  you." 

"What,  in  the  breast-pocket?" 

"  Yes,  as  he  drew  out  his  handkerchief,  I  saw  the  barrel  of 
the  pistol  quite  distinctly." 

"  Indeed  !  I  think  we  had  better  tell  my  father  as  soon  as 
we  get  home  ;  it  may  be  as  well  to  be  on  our  guard,  though  rob- 
bery, I  believe,  has  not  been  heard  of  in  Grassdale  for  these 
twenty  years." 

*'  Yet  for  what  purpose,  save  that  of  evil,  could  he,  in  these 
peaceable  times  and  this  peaceable  country,  carry  firearms 
about  him  ?  And  what  a  countenance  !  Did  you  note  the 
shy  and  yet  ferocious  eye,  like  that  of  some  animal  that  longs, 
yet  fears,  to  spring  upon  you?" 

"  Upon  my  word,  Ellinor,"  said  Madeline,  smiling,  "  you 
are  not  very  merciful  to  strangers.  After  all,  the  man  might 
have  provided  himself  with  the  pistol  which  you  saw  as  a  nat- 
ural precaution  ;  reflect  that,  as  a  stranger,  he  may  well  not 
know  how  safe  this  district  usually  is,  and  he  may  have  come 
from  London,  in  the  neighborhood  of  which  they  say  robber- 
ies have  been  frequent  of  late.  As  to  his  looks,  they  are,  I 
own,  unpardonable  ;  for  so  much  ugliness  there  can  be  no  ex- 
cuse. Had  the  man  been  as  handsome  as  our  cousin  Walter, 
you  would  not,  perhaps,  have  been  so  uncharitable  in  your 
fears  at  the  pistol." 

"Nonsense,  Madeline,"  said  Ellinor,  blushing  and  turning 
away  her  face  ;  there  was  a  moment's  pause,  which  the  younger 
sister  broke. 

"We  do  not  seem,"  said  she,  "  to  make  much  progress  in  the 
friendship  of  our  singular  neighbor.  I  never  knew  my  father 
court  any  one  so  much  as  he  has  courted  Mr.  Aram,  and  yet 
you  see  how  seldom  he  calls  upon  us  ;  nay,  I  often  think  that 
he  seeks  to  shun  us  ;  no  great  compliment  to  our  attractions, 
Madeline  !  " 

"  I  regret  his  want  of  sociability,  for  his  own  sake,"  said 
Madeline  ;  "  for  he  seems  melancholy  as  well  as  thoughtful ; 
and  he  leads  so  secluded  a  life  that  I  cannot  but  think  my 
father's  conversation  and  society,  if  he  would  but  encourage  it, 
might  afford  some  relief  to  his  solitude." 

"  And  he  always  seems,"  observed  Ellinor,  "  to  take  pleas- 


36  EUGENE     ARAM. 

ure  in  my  father's  conversation,— as  who  would  not  ?  How 
his  countenance  lights  up  when  he  converses  ?  it  is  a  pleasure 
to  watch  it.  I  think  him  positively  handsome  when  he  speaks." 

"  Oh,  more  than  handsome  !  "  said  Madeline,  with  enthusi- 
asm ;  "  with  that  high,  pale  brow,  and  those  deep,  unfathomable 
eyes." 

Ellinor  smiled,  and  it  was  now  Madeline's  turn  to  blush. 

"  Well,"  said  the  former,  "  there  is  something  about  him 
that  fills  one  with  an  indescribable  interest  ;  and  his  manner,  if 
cold  at  times,  is  yet  always  so  gentle." 

"  And  to  hear  him  converse,"  said  Madeline,  "  it  is  like 
music.  His  thoughts,  his  very  words,  seem  so  different  from 
the  language  and  ideas  of  others.  What  a  pity  that  he  should 
ever  be  silent !" 

"There  is  one  peculiarity  about  his  gloom,  it  never  inspires 
one  with  distrust,"  said  Ellinor ;  "if  I  had  observed  him  in 
the  same  circumstances  as  that  ill-omened  traveller,  I  should 
have  no  apprehension." 

"Ah  !  that  traveller  still  runs  in  your  head.  If  we  were  to 
meet  him  on  this  spot !  " 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  "  cried  Ellinor, — turning  hastily  round  in 
alarm, — and,  lo  !  as  if  her  sister  had  been  a  prophet,  she  saw 
the  very  person  in  question,  at  some  little  distance  behind 
them,  and  walking  on  with  rapid  strides. 

She  uttered  a  faint  shriek  of  surprise  and  terror,  and  Made- 
line, looking  back  at  the  sound,  immediately  participated  in 
her  alarm.  The  spot  looked  so  desolate  and  lonely,  and  the 
imagination  of  both  had  been  already  so  worked  upon  by 
Ellinor's  fears,  and  their  conjectures  respecting  the  ill-boding 
weapon  she  had  witnessed,  that  a  thousand  apprehensions  of 
outrage  and  murder  crowded  at  once  upon  the  minds  of  the 
two  sisters.  Without,  however,  giving  vent  in  words  to  their 
alarm,  they  quickened  their  pace  involuntarily,  every  moment 
stealing  a  glance  behind,  to  watch  the  progress  of  the  sus- 
pected robber.  They  thought  that  he  also  seemed  to  acceler- 
ate his  movements ;  and  this  observation  increased  their 
terror,  and  would  appear,  indeed,  to  give  it  some  more  rational 
ground.  At  length,  as  by  a  sudden  turn  of  the  road  they  lost 
sight  of  the  dreaded  stranger,  their  alarm  suggested  to  them 
but  one  resolution,  and  they  fairly  fled  on  as  fast  as  the  fear 
which  actuated  would  allow  them.  The  nearest,  and  indeed  the 
only,  house  in  that  direction,  was  Aram's  ;  but  they  both  im- 
agined if  they  could  come  within  sight  of  that,  they  should  be 
safe.  They  looked  back  at  every  interval ;  now  they  did  not 


EUGENE     ARAM.  37 

see  their  fancied  pursuer;  now  he  emerged  again  into  view ; 
now — yes — he  also  was  running.  "Faster,  faster,  Madeline, 
for  God's  sake  !  he  is  gaining  upon  us  !  "  cried  Ellinor.  The 
path  grew  more  wild,  and  the  trees  more  thick  and  frequent ; 
at  every  cluster  that  marked  their  progress  they  saw  the 
stranger  closer  and  closer ;  at  length  a  sudden  break — a  sud- 
den turn  in  the  landscape — a  broad  plain  burst  upon  them,  and 
in  the  midst  of  it  the  student's  solitary  abode ! 

''Thank  Heaven,  we  are  safe!"  cried  Madeline.  She 
turned  once  more  to  look  for  the  stranger ;  in  so  doing  her 
foot  struck  against  a  fragment  of  stone,  and  she  fell  with  great 
violence  to  the  ground.  She  endeavored  to  rise,  but  found 
herself,  at  first,  unable  to  stir  from  the  spot.  In  this  state, 
however,  she  looked  back,  and  saw  the  traveller  at  some  little 
distance.  But  he  also  halted,  and  after  a  moment's  seeming 
deliberation,  turned  aside,  and  was  lost  among  the  bushes. 

With  great  difficulty  Ellinor  now  assisted  Madeline  to  rise  ; 
her  ankle  was  violently  sprained,  and  she  could  not  put  her 
foot  to  the  ground :  but  though  she  had  evinced  so  much 
dread  at  the  apparition  of  the  stranger,  she  now  testified  an  al- 
most equal  degree  of  fortitude  in  bearing  pain.  "  I  am  not 
much  hurt,  Ellinor,"  she  said,  faintly  smiling  to  encourage  her 
sister,  who  supported  her  in  speechless  alarm  :  "  but  what  is  to 
be  done  ?  I  cannot  use  this  foot.  How  shall  we  get  home  ? " 

"  But  are  you  sure  you  are  not  much  hurt  ? "  said  poor 
Ellinor,  almost  crying ;  "  lean  on  me — heavier — pray  !  V^nly 
try  and  reach  the  house,  and  we  can  then  stay  there  till  Mr. 
Aram  sends  home  for  the  carriage." 

"But  what  will  he  think?  How  strange  it  will  seem  !  "  said 
Madeline,  the  color  once  more  visiting  her  cheek,  which  a  mo- 
ment since  had  been  blanched  as  pale  as  death. 

"  Is  this  a  time  for  scruples  and  ceremony  ?  "  said  Ellinor. 
"  Come  !  I  entreat  you,  come  ;  if  you  linger  thus,  the  man  may 
take  courage  and  attack  us  yet.  There  !  that's  right  !  is  the 
pain  very  great  t " 

"I  do  not  mind  the  pain,"  murmured  Madeline  ;  "but  if  he 
should  think  we  intrude  ?  His  habits  are  so  reserved — so 
secluded  ;  indeed  I  fear — " 

"  Intrude  ! "  interrupted  Ellinor.  "  Do  you  think  so  ill  of 
him  ?  Do  you  suppose  that,  hermit  that  he  is,  he  has  not  com- 
mon humanity?  But  lean  more  on  me,  dearest ;  you  do  not 
know  how  strong  I  am  ! " 

Thus  alternately  chiding,  caressing,  and  encouraging  her 
sister,  Ellinor  led  on  the  sufferer,  till  they  had  crossed  the. 


38  EUGENE     ARAM. 

plain,  though  with  slowness  and  labor,  and  stood  before  the 
porch  of  the  recluse's  house.  They  had  looked  back'  from 
time  to  time,  but  the  cause  of  so  much  alarm  appeared  no  more. 
This  they  deemed  a  sufficient  evidence  of  the  justice  of  their 
apprehensions. 

Madeline  even  now  would  fain  have  detained  her  sister's  hand 
from  the  bell  that  hung  without  the  porch  half  imbedded  in  ivy  ; 
but  Ellinor,  out  of  patience — as  well  she  might  be — with  her 
sister's  unseasonable  prudery,  refused  any  longer  delay.  So 
singularly  still  and  solitary  was  the  plain  around  the  house, 
that  the  sound  of  the  bell  breaking  the  silence  had  in  it  some- 
thing startling,  and  appeared,  in  its  sudden  and  shrill  voice,  a 
profanation  of  the  deep  tranquillity  of  the  spot.  They  did  not 
wait  long ;  a  step  was  heard  within  ;  the  door  was  slowly  un- 
barred, and  the  student  himself  stood  before  them. 

He  was  a  man  who  might,  perhaps,  have  numbered  some 
five  and  thirty  years  ;  but,  at  a  hasty  glance,  he  would  have 
seemed  considerably  younger.  He  was  above  the  ordinary 
stature  ;  though  a  gentle,  and  not  ungraceful  bend  in  his  neck, 
rather  than  the  shoulders,  somewhat  curtailed  his  proper 
advantages  of  height.  His  frame  was  thin  and  slender,  but 
well  knit  and  fair  proportioned.  Nature  had  originally  cast 
his  form  in  an  athletic  mould  ;  but  sedentary  habits,  and  the 
wear  of  mind,  seemed  somewhat  to  have  impaired  her  gifts. 
His  cheek  was  pale  and  delicate  ;  yet  was  rather  the  delicacy 
of  thought  than  weak  health.  His  hair,  which  was  long,  and 
of  a  rich  and  deep  brown,  was  thrown  back  from  his  face  and 
temples,  and  left  a  broad,  high,  majestic  forehead  utterly  unre- 
lieved and  bare  ;  and  on  the  brow  there  was  not  a  single 
wrinkle  ;  it  was  as  smooth  as  it  might  have  been  fifteen  years 
ago.  There  was  a  singular  calmness,  and,  so  to  speak,  pro- 
fundity of  thought,  eloquent  upon  its  clear  expanse,  which 
suggested  the  idea  of  one  who  had  passed  his  life  rather  in  con- 
templation than  emotion.  It  was  a  face  that  a  physiognomist 
would  have  loved  to  look  upon,  so  much  did  it  speak  both  of 
the  refinement  and  the  dignity  of  intellect. 

Such  was  the  person — if  pictures  convey  a  faithful  resem- 
blance— of  a  man,  certainly  among  the  most  eminent  in  his 
day  for  various  and  profound  learning,  and  especially  for  a 
genius  wholly  self-taught,  yet  never  contented  to  repose  upon 
the  wonderful  stores  it  had  laboriously  accumulated. 

He  now  stood  before  the  two  girls,  silent,  and  evidently 
surprised  ;  and  it  would  have  been  no  unworthy  subject  for  a 
picture— that  ivied  porch — that  still  spot — Madeline's  reclining 


EUGENE     ARAM.  39 

and  subdued  form  and  downcast  eyes — the  eager  face  of  Elli- 
nor,  about  to  narrate  the  nature  and  cause  of  their  intrusion — 
and  the  pale  student  himself,  thus  suddenly  aroused  from  his 
solitary  meditations,  and  converted  into  the  protector  of 
beauty. 

No  sooner  did  Aram  learn  from  Ellinor  the  outline  of  their 
story,  and  Madeline's  accident,  than  his  countenance  and 
manner  testified  the  liveliest  and  most  eager  interest.  Made- 
line was  inexpressibly  touched  and  surprised  at  the  kindly  and 
respectful  earnestness  with  which  this  recluse  scholar,  usually 
so  cold  and  abstracted  in  mood,  assisted  and  led  her  into  the 
house  :  the  sympathy  he  expressed  for  her  pain  ;  the  sincerity 
of  his  tone  ;  the  compassion  of  his  eyes  ;  and  as  those  dark, 
and,  to  use  her  own  thought,  unfathomable  orbs,  bent  admi- 
ringly and  yet  so  gently  upon  her,  Madeline,  even  in  spite  of 
her  pain,  felt  an  indescribable,  a  delicious  thrill  at  her  heart, 
which  in  the  presence  of  no  one  else  had  she  ever  experienced 
before. 

Aram  now  summoned  the  only  domestic  his  house  possessed, 
who  appeared  in  the  form  of  an  old  woman,  whom  he  seemed 
to  have  selected  from  the  whole  neighborhood  as  the  person 
most  in  keeping  with  the  rigid  seclusion  he  preserved.  She 
was  exceedingly  deaf,  and  was  a  proverb  in  the  village  for  her 
extreme  taciturnity.  Poor  old  Margaret  !  she  was  a  widow, 
and  had  lost  ten  children  by  early  deaths.  There  was  a  time 
when  her  gaiety  had  been  as  noticeable  as  her  reserve  was 
now.  In  spite  of  her  infirmity,  she  was  not  slow  in  compre- 
hending the  accident  Madeline  had  met  with  ;  and  she  busied 
herself  with  a  promptness  which  showed  that  her  misfortunes 
had  not  deadened  her  natural  kindness  of  disposition,  in  pre- 
paring fomentations  and  bandages  for  the  wounded  foot. 

Meanwhile  Aram  undertook  to  seek  the  manor-house,  and 
bring  back  the  old  family  coach,  which  had  dozed  inactively 
in  its  shelter  for  the  last  six  months,  to  convey  the  sufferer 
home. 

"No,  Mr.  Aram,"  said  Madeline,  coloring  ;  "pray  do  not  go 
yourself :  consider,  the  man  may  still  be  loitering  on  the  road. 
He  is  armed  :  good  heavens  !  if  he  should  meet  you  !  " 

"Fear  not,  madam,"  said  Aram,  with  a  faint  smile,  "/also 
keep  arms,  even  in  this  obscure  and  safe  retreat ;  and  to  satisfy 
you,  I  will  not  neglect  to  carry  them  with  me." 

As  he  spoke,  he  took  from  the  wainscot,  where  they  hung,  a 
brace  of  large  horse-pistols,  slung  them  round  him  by  a  leather 
belt,  and  flinging  over  his  person,  to  conceal  weapons  so  alarm- 


40  EUGENE     ARAM. 

ing  to  any  less  dangerous  passenger  he  might  encounter,  the 
long  cloak  then  usually  worn  in  inclement  seasons,  as  an  outer 
garment,  he  turned  to  depart. 

"But  are  they  loaded  ?"  asked  Ellinor. 

Aram  answered  briefly  in  the  affirmative.  It  was  somewhat 
singular,  but  the  sisters  did  not  then  remark  it,  that  a  man  so 
peaceable  in  his  pursuits,  and  seemingly  possessed  of  no  valu- 
ables that  could  tempt  cupidity,  should  in  that  spot,  where 
crime  was  never  heard  of,  use  such  habitual  precaution. 

When  the  door  closed  upon  him,  and  while  the  old  woman 
relieved  the  anguish  of  the  sprain  with  a  light  hand  and  sooth- 
ing lotions,  which  she  had  shown  some  skill  in  preparing, 
Madeline  cast  glances  of  interest  and  curiosity  around  the 
apartment  into  which  she  had  had  the  rare  good  fortune  to 
obtain  admittance. 

The  house  had  belonged  to  a  family  of  some  note,  whose 
heirs  had  outstripped  their  fortunes.  It  had  been  long  deserted 
and  uninhabited  ;  and  when  Aram  settled  in  those  parts,  the 
proprietor  was  too  glad  to  get  rid  of  the  incumbrance  of  an 
empty  house,  at  a  nominal  rent.  The  solitude  of  the  place 
had  been  the  main  attraction  to  Aram  ;  and  as  he  possessed 
what  would  be  considered  a  very  extensive  assortment  of 
books,  even  for  a  library  of  these  days,  he  required  a  larger 
apartment  than  he  would  have  been  able  to  obtain  in  an  abode 
more  compact  and  more  suitable  to  his  fortunes  and  mode 
of  living. 

The  room  in  which  the  sisters  now  found  themselves  was 
the  most  spacious  in  the  house,  and  was  indeed  of  consider- 
able dimensions.  It  contained  in  front  one  large  window, 
jutting  from  the  wall.  Opposite  was  an  antique  and  high 
mantelpiece  of  black  oak.  The  rest  of  the  room  was  walled 
from  the  floor  to  the  roof  with  books  ;  volumes  of  all  lan- 
guages, and  it  might  even  be  said,  without  much  exaggeration, 
upon  all  sciences,  were  strewed  around,  on  the  chairs,  the 
tables,  or  the  floor.  By  the  window  stood  the  student's  desk, 
and  a  large,  old-fashioned  oak  chair.  A  few  papers,  filled  with 
astronomical  calculations,  lay  on  the  desk,  and  these  were  all 
the  witnesses  of  the  result  of  study.  Indeed  Aram  does  not 
appear  to  have  been  a  man  much  inclined  to  reproduce  the 
learning  he  acquired  ;  what  he  wrote  was  in  a  very  small  pro- 
portion to  what  he  had  read. 

So  high  and  grave  was  the  scholar's  reputation,  that  the 
retreat  and  sanctum  of  so  many  learned  hours  would  have 
been  interesting,  even  to  one  who  could  not  appreciate  learn- 


ARAM.  41 

ing ;  but  to  Madeline,  with  her  peculiar  disposition  and  traits 
of  mind,  we  may  readily  conceive  that  the  room  presented  a 
powerful  and  pleasing  charm.  As  the  elder  sister  looked 
round  in  silence,  Ellinor  attempted  to  draw  the  old  woman 
into  conversation.  She  would  fain  have  elicited  some  particu- 
lars of  the  habits  and  daily  life  of  the  recluse ;  but  the  deaf- 
ness of  their  attendant  was  so  obstinate  and  hopeless,  that  she 
was  forced  to  give  up  the  attempt  in  despair.  "I  fear,"  she 
said  at  last,  her  good  nature  so  far  overcome  by  impatience  as 
not  to  forbid  a  slight  yawn  ;  "I  fear  we  shall  have  a  dull  time 
of  it  till  my  father  arrives.  Just  consider,  the  fat  black  mares, 
never  too  fast,  can  only  creep  along  that  broken  path, — for 
road  there  is  none  :  it  will  be  quite  night  before  the  coach 
arrives." 

"  I  am  sorry,  dear  Ellinor,  my  awkwardness  should  occasion 
you  so  stupid  an  evening,"  answered  Madeline. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Ellinor,  throwing  her  arms  around  her  sister's 
neck,  "  it  is  not  for  myself  I  spoke ;  and,  indeed,  I  am  de- 
lighted to  think  we  have  got  into  this  wizard's  den,  and  seen 
the  instruments  of  his  art.  But  I  do  so  trust  Mr.  Aram  will 
not  meet  that  terrible  man." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  prouder  Madeline,  "  he  is  armed,  and  it  is 
but  one  man.  I  feel  too  high  a  respect  for  him  to  allow  my- 
self much  fear." 

"  But  these  bookmen  are  not  often  heroes,"  remarked  Ellinor, 
laughing. 

"  For  shame,"  said  Madeline,  the  color  mounting  to  her 
forehead.  "  Do  you  not  remember  how,  last  summer,  Eugene 
Aram  rescued  Dame  Grenfeld's  child  from  the  bull,  though  at 
the  literal  peril  of  his  own  life  ?  And  who  but  Eugene  Aram, 
when  the  floods  in  the  year  before  swept  along  the  low  lands 
by  Fairleigh,  went  day  after  day  to  rescue  the  persons,  or  even 
to  save  the  goods,  of  those  poor  people  ;  at  a  time,  too,  when 
the  boldest  villagers  would  not  hazard  themselves  across  the 
waters  ?  But  bless  me,  Ellinor,  what  is  the  matter  ?  you  turn 
pale — you  tremble." 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Ellinor  under  her  breath,  and,  putting  her 
finger  to  her  mouth,  she  rose  and  stole  lightly  to  the  window  ; 
she  had  observed  the  figure  of  a  man  pass  by,  and  now,  as  she 
gained  the  window,  she  saw  him  halt  by  the  porch,  and  recog- 
nized the  formidable  stranger.  Presently  the  bell  sounded, 
and  the  old  woman,  familiar  with  its  shrill  sound,  rose  from 
her  kneeling  position  beside  the  sufferer  to  attend  to  the  sum- 
mons. Ellinor  sprang  forward  and  detained  her ;  the  poor  o!4 


42  EUGENE      ARAM. 

woman  stared  at  her  in  amazement,  wholly  unable  to  compre- 
hend her  abrupt  gestures  and  her  rapid  language.  It  was  with 
considerable  difficulty,  and  after  repeated  efforts,  that  she  at 
length  impressed  the  dull  sense  of  the  crone  with  the  nature 
of  their  alarm,  and  the  expediency  of  refusing  admittance  to 
the  stranger.  Meanwhile,  the  bell  had  rung  again,  again,  and 
the  third  time,  with  a  prolonged  violence  which  testified  the 
impatience  of  the  applicant.  As  soon  as  the  good  dame  had 
satisfied  herself  as  to  Ellinor's  meaning,  she  could  no  longer  be 
accused  of  unreasonable  taciturnity  ;  she  wrung  her  hands, 
and  poured  forth  a  volley  of  lamentations  and  fears,  which 
effectually  relieved  Ellinor  from  the  dread  of  her  unheeding 
the  admonition.  Satisfied  at  having  done  thus  much,  Ellinor 
now  herself  hastened  to  the  door,  and  secured  the  ingress  with 
an  additional  bolt,  and  then,  as  the  thought  flashed  upon 
her,  returned  to  the  old  woman,  and  made  her,  with  an  easier 
effort  than  before,  now  that  her  senses  were  sharpened  by  fear, 
comprehend  the  necessity  of  securing  the  back  entrance  also  : 
both  hastened  away  to  effect  this  precaution,  and  Madeline, 
who  herself  desired  Ellinor  to  accompany  the  old  woman,  was 
left  alone.  She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  window  with  a 
strange  sentiment  of  dread  at  being  thus  left  in  so  helpless  a 
situation  ;  and  though  a  door  of  no  ordinary  dimensions  and 
doubly  locked  interposed  between  herself  and  the  intruder, 
she  expected,  in  breathless  terror,  every  instant,  to  see  the 
form  of  the  ruffian  burst  into  the  apartment.  As  she  thus  sat 
and  looked,  she  shudderingly  saw  the  man,  tired  perhaps  of 
repeating  a  summons  so  ineffectual,  come  to  the  window  and 
look  pryingly  within  :  their  eyes  met  ;  Madeline  had  not  the 
power  to  shriek.  Would  he  break  through  the  window  ?  That 
was  her  only  idea,  and  it  deprived  her  of  words,  almost  of 
sense.  He  gazed  upon  her  evident  terror  for  a  moment  with 
a  grim  smile  of  contempt :  he  then  knocked  at  the  window, 
and  his  voice  broke  harshly  on  a  silence  yet  more  dreadful 
than  the  interruption. 

"  Ho,  ho  !  so  there  is  some  life  stirring !  I  beg  pardon, 
madam,  is  Mr.  Aram — Eugene  Aram,  within?" 

"  No,"  said  Madeline  faintly  ;  and  then,  sensible  that  her 
voice  did  not  reach  him,  she  reiterated  the  answer  in  a  louder 
tone.  The  man,  as  if  satisfied,  made  a  rude  inclination  of  his 
head,  and  withdrew  from  the  window.  Ellinor  now  returned, 
and  with  difficulty  Madeline  found  words  to  explain  to  her 
what  had  passed.  It  will  be  conceived  that  the  two  young 
ladies  waited  for  the  arrival  of  their  father  with  no  lukewarm 


EUGENE     ARAM.  43 

expectation  ;  the  stranger,  however,  appeared  no  more  ;  and  in 
about  an  hour,  to  their  inexpressible  joy,  they  heard  the  rum- 
bling sound  of  the  old  coach,  as  it  rolled  towards  the  house. 
This  time  there  was  no  delay  in  unbarring  the  door. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    SOLILOQUY,    AND    THE    CHARACTER,  OF   A  RECLUSE. — THE 
INTERRUPTION. 

'  Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 
Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear, 
Or  thrice  great  Hermes,  and  unsphere 
The  spirii  of  Plato." — MILTON:  II  Penseroso. 

As  Aram  assisted  the  beautiful  Madeline  into  the  carriage  ; 
as  he  listened  to  her  sweet  voice  ;  as  he  marked  the  grateful 
expression  of  her  soft  eyes  ;  as  he  felt  the  slight  yet  warm 
pressure  of  her  fairy  hand,  that  vague  sensation  of  delight 
which  preludes  love,  for  the  first  time  in  his  sterile  and  solitary 
life,  agitated  his  breast.  Lester  held  out  his  hand  to  him  with 
a  frank  cordiality  which  the  scholar  could  not  resist. 

"Do  not  let  us  be  strangers,  Mr.  Aram,"  said  he  warmly. 
"  It  is  not  often  that  I  press  for  companionship  out  of  my  own 
circle  ;  but  in  your  company  I  should  find  pleasure  as  well  as 
instruction.  Let  us  break  the  ice  boldly,  and  at  once.  Come 
and  dine  with  me  to-morrow,  and  Ellinor  shall  sing  to  us  in 
the  evening." 

The  excuse  died  upon  Aram's  lips.  Another  glance  at 
Madeline  conquered  the  remains  of  his  reserve :  he  accepted 
the  invitation,  and  he  could  not  but  mark,  with  an  unfamiliar 
emotion  of  the  heart,  that  the  eyes  of  Madeline  sparkled  as 
he  did  so. 

With  an  abstracted  air,  and  arms  folded  across  his  breast, 
he  gazed  after  the  carriage  till  the  winding  of  the  valley 
snatched  it  from  his  view.  He  then,  waking  from  his  revery 
with  a  start,  turned  into  the  house,  and  carefully  closing  and 
barring  the  door,  mounted  with  slow  steps  to  the  lofty  cham- 
ber with  which,  the  better  to  indulge  his  astronomical  re- 
searches, he  had  crested  his  lonely  abode. 

It  was  now  night.  The  heavens  broadened  round  him  in  all 
the  loving  yet  august  tranquillity  of  the  season  and  the  hour; 


44  EUGENE    ARAM. 

the  stars  bathed  the  living  atmosphere  with  a  solemn  light ;  and 
above,  about,  around — 

"  The  holy  time  was  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration." 

He  looked  forth  upon  the  deep  and  ineffable  stillness  of  the 
night,  and  indulged  the  reflections  that  it  suggested. 

"Ye  mystic  lights,"  said  he,  soliloquizing  :  "worlds  upon 
worlds — infinite — incalculable.  Bright  defiers  of  rest  and 
change,  rolling  forever  above  our  petty  sea  of  mortality,  as, 
wave  after  wave,  we  fret  forth  our  little  life,  and  sink  into  the 
black  abyss  ;  can  we  look  upon  you,  note  your  appointed 
order,  and  your  unvarying  courses,  and  not  feel  that  we  are, 
indeed,  the  poorest  puppets  of  an  all-pervading  and  resistless 
destiny  ?  Shall  we  see  throughout  creation  each  marvel  ful- 
filling its  pre-ordered  fate — no  wandering  from  its  orbit,  no 
variation  in  its  seasons — and  yet  imagine  that  the  Arch-ordainer 
will  hold  back  the  tides  He  has  sent  from  their  unseen  source, 
at  our  miserable  bidding  ?  Shall  we  think  that  our  prayers 
can  avert  a  doom  woven  with  the  skein  of  events  ?  To  change 
a  particle  of  our  fate,  might  change  the  destiny  of  millions  ! 
Shall  the  link  forsake  the  chain,  and  yet  the  chain  be 
unbroken  ?  Away,  then,  with  our  vague  repinings,  and  our 
blind  demands.  All  must  walk  onward  to  their  goal ;  be  he 
the  wisest  who  looks  not  one  step  behind.  The  colors  of  our 
existence  were  doomed  before  our  birth — our  sorrows  and  our 
crimes  ;  millions  of  ages  back,  when  this  hoary  earth  was  peo- 
pled by  other  kinds,  yea,  ere  its  atoms  had  formed  one  layer 
of  its  present  soil,  the  eternal  and  all-seeing  Ruler  of  the 
universe,  Destiny  or  God,  had  here  fixed  the  moment  of  our 
birth  and  the  limits  of  our  career.  What,  then,  is  crime  ? 
Fate  !  What  life  ?  Submission  !  " 

Such  were  the  strange  and  dark  thoughts  which,  too  familiar 
to  his  musings,  now  obtruded  their  mournful  dogmas  on  his 
mind.  He  sought  a  fairer  subject  for  meditation,  and  Made- 
line Lester  rose  before  him. 

Eugene  Aram  was  a  man  whose  whole  life  seemed  to  have 
been  one  sacrifice  to  knowledge.  What  is  termed  pleasure  had 
no  attraction  for  him.  From  the  mature  manhood  at  which  he 
had  arrived,  he  looked  back  along  his  youth,  and  recognized 
no  youthful  folly.  Love  he  had  hitherto  regarded  with  a  cold 
though  not  an  incurious  eye  :  intemperance  had  never  lured 
him  to  a  momentary  self-abandonment.  Even  the  innocent 
relaxations  with  which  the  austerest  minds  relieve  their  accus- 


EUGENE   ARAM.  45 

tomed  toils,  had  had  no  power  to  draw  him  from  his  beloved 
researches.  The  delight  monstrari  digito ;  the  gratification  of 
triumphant  wisdom  ;  the  whispers  of  an  elevated  vanity  ; 
existed  not  for  his  self-dependent  and  solitary  heart.  He  was 
one  of  those  earnest  and  high-wrought  enthusiasts  who  now 
are  almost  extinct  upon  earth,  and  whom  Romance  has  not 
hitherto  attempted  to  portray ;  men  not  uncommon  in  the 
last  century,  who  were  devoted  to  knowledge,  yet  disdainful  of 
its  fame  ;  who  lived  for  nothing  else  than  to  learn.  From  store 
to  store,  from  treasure  to  treasure,  they  proceeded  in  exulting 
labor,  and,  having  accumulated  all,  they  bestowed  nought  ; 
they  were  the  arch-misers  of  the  wealth  of  letters.  Wrapped 
in  obscurity,  in  some  sheltered  nook,  remote  from  the  great 
stir  of  men,  they  passed  a  life  at  once  unprofitable  and  glori- 
ous ;  the  least  part  of  what  they  ransacked  would  appal  the 
industry  of  a  modern  student,  yet  the  most  superficial  of 
modern  students  might  effect  more  for  mankind.  They  lived 
among  oracles,  but  they  gave  none  forth.  And  yet,  even  in 
this  very  barrenness,  there  seems  nothing  high  ;  it  was  a  rare 
and  great  spectacle  ;  men,  living  aloof  from  the  roar  and  strife 
of  the  passions  that  raged  below,  devoting  themselves  to  the 
knowledge  which  is  our  purification  and  our  immortality  on 
earth,  and  yet  deaf  and  blind  to  the  allurements  of  the  vanity 
which  generally  accompanies  research  ;  refusing  the  ignorant 
homage  of  their  kind,  making  their  sublime  motive  their  only 
meed,  adoring  Wisdom  for  her  sole  sake,  and  set  apart  in  the 
populous  universe,  like  those  remoter  stars  which  interchange 
no  light  with  earth — gild  not  our  darkness,  and  color  not  our  air. 
From  his  youth  to  the  present  period,  Aram  had  dwelt  little 
in  cities,  though  he  had  visited  many,  yet  he  could  scarcely  be 
called  ignorant  of  mankind  ;  there  seems  something  intuitive 
in  the  science  which  teaches  us  the  knowledge  of  our  race. 
Some  men  emerge  from  their  seclusion,  and  find,  all  at  once,  a 
power  to  dart  into  the  minds  and  drag  forth  the  motives  of 
those  they  see  ;  it  is  a  sort  of  second  sight,  born  with  them,  no; 
acquired.  And  Aram,  it  may  be,  rendered  yet  more  acute  by 
his  profound  and  habitual  investigations  of  our  metaphysical 
frame,  never  quitted  his  solitude  to  mix  with  others,  without 
penetrating  into  the  broad  traits  or  prevalent  infirmities  their 
characters  possessed.  In  this,  indeed,  he  differed  from  the 
scholar  tribe,  and  even  in  abstraction  was  mechanically  vigilant 
and  observant.  Much  in  his  nature,  had  early  circumstances 
given  it  a  different  bias,  would  have  fitted  him  for  worldly 
superiority  and  command.  A  resistless  energy,  an  unbrokei» 


46  EUGENE  ARAM. 

perseverance,  a  profound,  and  scheming,  and  subtle  thought,  a 
genius  fertile  in  resources,  a  tongue  clothed  with  eloquence — 
all,  had  his  ambition  so  chosen,  might  have  given  him  the 
same  empire  over  the  physical,  that  he  had  now  attained  over 
the  intellectual  world.  It  could  not  be  said  that  Aram  wanted 
benevolence,  but  it  was  dashed  and  mixed  with  a  certain 
scorn  :  the  benevolence  was  the  offspring  of  his  nature  ;  the 
scorn  seemed  the  result  of  his  pursuits.  He  would  feed  the 
birds  from  his  window  ;  he  would  tread  aside  to  avoid  the 
worm  on  his  path  ;  were  one  of  his  own  tribe  in  danger,  he 
would  save  him  at  the  hazard  of  his  life — yet  in  his  heart  he 
despised  men,  and  believed  them  beyond  amelioration.  Unlike 
the  present  race  of  schoolmen,  who  incline  to  the  consoling 
hope  of  human  perfectibility,  he  saw  in  the  gloomy  past  but  a 
dark  prophecy  of  the  future.  As  Napoleon  wept  over  one 
wounded  soldier  in  the  field  of  battle,  yet  ordered,  without 
emotion,  thousands  to  a  certain  death  ;  so  Aram  would  have 
sacrificed  himself  for  an  individual,  but  would  not  have  sacri- 
ficed a  momentary  gratification  for  his  race.  And  this  senti- 
ment towards  men,  at  once  of  high  disdain  and  profound  de- 
spondency, was  perhaps  the  cause  why  he  rioted  in  indolence 
upon  his  extraordinary  mental  wealth,  and  could  not  be  per- 
suaded either  to  dazzle  the  world  or  to  serve  it.  But  by  little 
and  little  his  fame  had  broke  forth  from  the  limits  with  which 
he  would  have  walled  it :  a  man  who  had  taught  himself,  under 
singular  difficulties,  nearly  all  the  languages  of  the  civilized 
earth  ;  the  profound  mathematician,  the  elaborate  antiquarian, 
the  abstruse  philologist,  uniting  with  his  graver  lore  the  more 
florid  accomplishments  of  science,  from  the  scholastic  trifling 
of  heraldry  to  the  gentle  learning  of  herbs  and  flowers,  could 
scarcely  hope  for  utter  obscurity  in  that  day  when  all  intel- 
lectual acquirement  was  held  in  high  honor,  and  its  possessors 
were  drawn  together  into  a  sort  of  brotherhood  by  the  fellow- 
ship of  their  pursuits.  And  though  Aram  gave  little  or  noth- 
ing to  the  world  himself,  he  was  ever  willing  to  communicate 
to  others  any  benefit  or  honor  derivable  from  his  researches. 
On  the  altar  of  science  he  kindled  no  light,  but  the  fragrant  oil 
in  the  lamps  of  his  more  pious  brethren  was  largely  borrowed 
from  his  stores.  From  almost  every  college  in  Europe  came 
to  his  obscure  abode  letters  of  acknowledgment  or  inquiry  ; 
and  few  foreign  cultivators  of  learning  visited  this  country 
without  seeking  an  interview  with  Aram.  He  received  them 
with  all  the  modesty  and  the  courtesy  that  characterized  his 
demeanor  ;  but  it  was  noticeable  that  he  never  allowed  these 


ttJGfcNE    ARAM.  47 

interruptions  to  be  more  than  temporary.  He  proffered  no 
hospitality,  and  shrunk  back  from  all  offers  of  friendship  ;  the 
interview  lasted  its  hour,  and  was  seldom  renewed.  Patronage 
was  not  less  distasteful  to  him  than  sociality.  Some  occasional 
visits  and  condescensions  of  the  great  he  had  received  with  a 
stern  haughtiness,  rather  than  his  habitual  subdued  urbanity. 
The  precise  amount  of  his  fortune  was  not  known  ;  his  wants 
were  so  few  that  what  would  have  been  poverty  to  others 
might  easily  have  been  competence  to  him ;  and  the  only 
evidence  he  manifested  of  the  command  of  money  was  in  his 
extended  and  various  library. 

He  had  been  now  about  two  years  settled  in  his  present 
retreat.  Unsocial  as  he  was,  every  one  in  the  neighborhood 
loved  him  ;  even  the  reserve  of  a  man  so  eminent,  arising  as  it 
was  supposed  to  do  from  a  painful  modesty,  had  in  it  some- 
thing winning  ;  and  he  had  been  known  to  evince,  on  great 
occasions,  a  charity  and  a  courage  in  the  service  of  others 
which  removed  from  the  seclusion  of  his  habits  the  semblance 
of  misanthropy  and  of  avarice.  The  peasant  threw  kindly  pity 
into  his  respectful  greeting,  as  in  his  homeward  walk  he 
encountered  the  pale  and  thoughtful  student,  with  the  folded 
arms  and  downcast  eyes  which  characterized  the  abstraction  of 
his  mood  ;  and  the  village  maiden,  as  she  curtseyed  by  him, 
stole  a  glance  at  his  handsome  but  melancholy  countenance, 
and  told  her  sweetheart  she  was  certain  the  poor  scholar  had 
been  crossed  in  love  ! 

And  thus  passed  the  student's  life  ;  perhaps  its  monotony 
and  dulness  required  less  compassion  than  they  received  :  no 
man  can  judge  of  the  happiness  of  another.  As  the  moon  plays 
upon  the  waves,  and  seems  to  our  eyes  to  favor  with  a  peculiar 
beam  one  long  track  amidst  the  waters,  leaving  the  rest  in  com- 
parative obscurity  ;  yet  all  the  while,  she  is  no  niggard  in  her 
lustre — for  though  the  rays  that  meet  not  our  eyes  seem  to  us 
as  though  they  were  not,  yet  she,  with  an  equal  and  unfavoring 
loveliness,  mirrors  herself  on  every  wave — even  so,  perhaps, 
happiness  falls  with  the  same  brightness  and  power  over  the 
whole  expanse  of  life,  though  to  our  limited  eyes  it  seems  only 
to  rest  on  those  billows  from  which  the  ray  is  reflected  on  our 
sight. 

From  his  contemplations,  of  whatsoever  nature,  Aram  was 
now  aroused  by  a  loud  summons  at  the  door — the  clock  had 
gone  eleven.  Who,  at  that  late  hour,  when  the  whole  village 
was  buried  in  sleep,  could  demand  admittance  ?  He  recol- 
lected that  Madeline  had  said  the  stranger  who  had  so  alarmed 


48  EUGENE    ARAM. 

them  had  inquired  for  him  ;  at  that  recollection  his  cheek  sud- 
denly blanched,  but  again,  that  stranger  was  surely  only  some 
poor  traveller  who  had  heard  of  his  wonted  charity,  and  had 
called  to  solicit  relief  ;  for  he  had  not  met  the  stranger  on  the 
road  to  Lester's  house,  and  he  had  naturally  set  down  the 
apprehensions  of  his  fair  visitants  to  mere  female  timidity. 
Who  could  this  be  ?  No  humble  wayfarer  would  at  that  hour 
crave  assistance  ;  some  disaster,  perhaps,  in  the  village  ?  From 
his  lofty  chamber  he  looked  forth  and  saw  the  stars  watch 
quietly  over  the  scattered  cottages  and  the  dark  foliage  that 
slept  breathlessly  around.  All  was  still  as  death,  but  it  seemed 
the  stillness  of  innocence  and  security  :  again  !  the  bell  again  ! 
He  thought  he  heard  his  name  shouted  without  ;  he  strode 
once  or  twice  irresolutely  to  and  fro  the  chamber  ;  and  then 
his  step  grew  firm,  and  his  native  courage  returned.  His  pistols 
were  still  girded  round  him  ;  he  looked  to  the  priming,  and 
muttered  some  incoherent  words  ;  he  then  descended  the  stairs 
and  slowly  unbarred  the  door.  Without  the  porch,  the  moon- 
light full  upon  his  harsh  features  and  sturdy  frame,  stood  the 
.ill  omened  traveller. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  DINNER  AT  THE  SQUIRE'S  HALL. — A  CONVERSATION  BETWEEN 
TWO  RETIRED  MEN  WITH  DIFFERENT  OBJECTS  IN  RETIRE- 
MENT.— DISTURBANCE  FIRST  INTRODUCED  INTO  A  PEACEFUL 
FAMILY. 

"  Can  he  not  be  sociable  ?  " —  Troihis  and  Cressida. 

"  Subit  quippe  etiam  ipsius  inertise  dulcedo  ;  et  invisa  primo  desidia  pos- 
tremd  amatur."  * — TACITUS. 

"  How  use  doth  breed  a  habit  in  a  man  ! 
This  shadowy  desert,  unfrequented  woods, 
I  better  brook  than  flourishing  peopled  towns." — Winter's  Tale. 

THE  next  day,  faithful  to  his  appointment,  Aram  arrived  at 
Lester's.  The  good  squire  received  him  with  a  warm  cordial- 
ity, and  Madeline  with  a  blush  and  a  smile  that  ought  to  have 
been  more  grateful  to  him  than  acknowledgments.  She  was 
still  a  prisoner  to  the  sofa,  but,  in  compliment  to  Aram,  the 
sofa  was  wheeled  into  the  hall  where  they  dined,  so  that  she 

*  Forasmuch  as  the  very  sweetness  of  idleness  stealthily  introduces  itself  into  the  mind, 
suid  the  sloth,  which  was  at  first  hateful,  becomes  at  length  beloved. 


EUGENE    ARAM.  49 

was  not  absent  from  the  repast.  It  was  a  pleasant  room,  that 
old  hall !  Though  it  \vas  summer,  more  for  cheerfulness  than 
warmth  the  log  burnt  on  the  spacious  hearth  :  but  at  the  same, 
time  the  latticed  windows  were  thrown  open,  and  the  fresh  yet 
sunny  air  stole  in,  rich  from  the  embrace  of  the  woodbine  and 
clematis,  which  hung  around  the  casement. 

A  few  old  pictures  were  panelled  in  the  oaken  wainscot ; 
and  here  and  there  the  horns  of  a  mighty  stag  adorned  the 
walls,  and  united  with  the  cheeriness  of  comfort  associations  of 
that  of  enterprise.  The  good  old  board  was  crowded  with  the 
luxuries  meet  for  a  country  squire.  The  speckled  trout,  fresh 
from  the  stream,  and  the  four-year-old  mutton  modestly  dis- 
claiming its  own  excellent  merits,  by  affecting  the  shape  and 
assuming  the  adjuncts  of  venison.  Then  for  the  confection- 
ery,— it  was  worthy  of  Ellinor,  to  whom  that  department 
generally  fell ;  and  we  should  scarcely  be  surprised  to  find, 
though  we  venture  not  to  affirm,  that  its  delicate  fabrication 
owed  more  to  her  than  superintendence.  Then  the  ale,  and 
the  cider  with  rosemary  in  the  bowl,  were  incomparable  pota- 
tions ;  and  to  the  gooseberry  wine,  which  would  have  filled 
Mrs.  Primrose  with  envy,  was  added  the  more  generous  warmth 
of  port  which,  in  the  squire's  younger  days,  had  been  the  talk 
of  the  country,  and  which  had  now  lost  none  of  its  attributes, 
save."  the  original  brightness  "  of  its  color. 

But  (the  wine  excepted)  these  various  dainties  met  with 
slight  honor  from  their  abstemious  guest,  and,  for  though 
habitually  reserved  he  was  rarely  gloomy,  they  remarked  that 
he  seemed  unusually  fitful  and  sombre  in  his  mood.  Some- 
thing appeared  to  rest  upon  his  mind,  from  which,  by  the 
excitement  of  wine  and  occasional  bursts  of  eloquence  more 
animated  than  ordinary,  he  seemed  striving  to  escape  ;  and  at 
length  he  apparently  succeeded.  Naturally  enough  the  con- 
versation turned  upon  the  curiosities  and  scenery  of  the  country 
round  ;  and  here  Aram  shone  with  a  peculiar  grace.  Vividly 
alive  to  the  influences  of  nature,  and  minutely  acquainted  with 
its  varieties,  he  invested  every  hill  and  glade  to  which  remark 
recurred  with  the  poetry  of  his  descriptions  ;  and  from  his 
research  he  gave  even  scenes  the  most  familiar  a  charm  and 
interest  which  had  been  strange  to  them  till  then.  To  this  stream 
some  romantic  legend  had  once  attached  itself,  long  forgotten 
and  now  revived  ;  that  moor,  so  barren  to  an  ordinary  eye, 
was  yet  productive  of  some  rare  and  curious  herb,  whose 
properties  afforded  scope  for  lively  description ;  that  old 
mound  was  yet  rife  in  attraction  to  one  versed  in  antiquities, 


50  EUGENE      ARAM. 

and  able  to  explain  its  origin,  and  from  such  explanation 
deduce  a  thousand  classic  or  Celtic  episodes. 

No  subject  was  so  homely  or  so  trite  but  the  knowledge  that 
had  neglected  nothing  was  able  to  render  it  luminous  and  new. 
And  as  he  spoke  the  scholar's  countenance  brightened,  and 
his  voice,  at  first  hesitating  and  low,  compelled  the  attention  to 
its  earnest  and  winning  music.  Lester  himself,  a  man  who,  in 
his  long  retirement,  had  not  forgotten  the  attractions  of  intel- 
lectual society,  nor  even  neglected  a  certain  cultivation  of  intel- 
lectual pursuits,  enjoyed  a  pleasure  that  he  had  not  experienced 
for  years.  The  gay  Ellinor  was  fascinated  into  admiration  ; 
and  Madeline,  the  most  silent  of  the  group,  drank  in  every 
word,  unconscious  of  the  sweet  poison  she  imbibed.  Walter 
alone  seemed  not  carried  away  by  the  eloquence  of  their  guest. 
He  preserved  an  unadmiring  and  sullen  demeanor,  and  every 
now  and  than  regarded  Aram  with  looks  of  suspicion  and  dis- 
like. This  was  more  remarkable  when  the  men  were  left 
alone  ;  and  Lester,  in  surprise  and  anger,  darted  significant 
and  admonitory  glances  towards  his  nephew,  which  at  length 
seemed  to  rouse  him  into  a  more  hospitable  bearing.  As  the 
cool  of  the  evening  now  came  on,  Lester  proposed  to  Aram  to 
enjoy  it  without,  previous  to  returning  to  the  parlor,  to  which 
the  ladies  had  retired.  Walter  excused  himself  from  joining 
them.  The  host  and  the  guest  accordingly  strolled  forth 
alone. 

"  Your  solitude,"  said  Lester,  smiling,  "  is  far  deeper  and 
less  broken  than  mine  ;  do  you  never  find  it  irksome  ?  " 

"Can  humanity  be  at  all  times  contented? "  said  Aram. 
"  No  stream,  howsoever  secret  or  subterranean,  glides  on  in 
eternal  tranquillity." 

"  You  allow,  then,  that  you  feel  some  occasional  desire  for  a 
more  active  and  animated  life  ?" 

"Nay,"  answered  Aram  ;  "  that  is  scarcely  a  fair  corollary 
from  my  remark.  I  may,  at  times,  feel  the  weariness  of  exist- 
ence— the  tedium  vitcs :  but  I  know  well  that  the  cause  is  not 
to  be  remedied  by  a  change  from  tranquillity  to  agitation. 
The  objects  of  the  great  world  are  to  be  pursued  only  by  the 
excitement  of  the  passions.  The  passions  are  at  once  our  masters 
and  our  deceivers  ;  they  urge  us  onward,  yet  present  no  limit 
to  our  progress.  The  farther  we  proceed,  the  more  dim  and 
shadowy  grows  the  goal.  It  is  impossible  for  a  man  who  leads 
the  life  of  the  world,  the  life  of  the  passions,  ever  to  experience 
content.  For  the  life  of  the  passions  is  that  of  a  perpetual  de- 
sire ;  but  a  state  of  content  is  the  absence  of  all  desire.  Thus 


EUGENE      ARAM.  51 

philosophy  has  become  another  name  for  mental  quietude  ;  and 
all  wisdom  points  to  a  life  of  intellectual  indifference  as  the 
happiest  which  earth  can  bestow." 

"This  may  be  true  enough,"  said  Lester  reluctantly  ; 
but—  " 

"But  what?" 

"  A  something  at  our  hearts — a  secret  voice,  an  involuntary 
impulse — rebels  against  it,  and  points  to  action — action,  as  the 
true  sphere  of  man." 

A  slight  smile  curved  the  lip  of  the  student :  he  avoided, 
however,  the  argument,  and  remarked  : 

"  Yet,  if  you  think  so,  the  world  lies  before  you  :  why  not 
return  to  it  ?  " 

"Because  constant  habit  is  stronger  than  occasional  impulse  ; 
and  my  seclusion,  after  all,  has  its  sphere  of  action — has  its 
object." 

"  All  seclusion  has." 

"All?  Scarcely  so  ;  for  me,  I  have  my  object  of  interest 
in  my  children." 

"  And  mine  is  in  my  books." 

"  And  engaged  in  your  object,  does  not  the  whisper  of  Fame 
ever  animate  you  with  the  desire  to  go  forth  into  the  world 
and  receive  the  homage  that  would  await  you  ?" 

"  Listen  to  me,"  replied  Aram.  "  When  I  was  a  boy,  I  went 
once  to  a  theatre.  The  tragedy  of  Hamlet  was  performed  ;  a 
play  full  of  the  noblest  thoughts,  the  subtlest  morality.  The 
audience  listened  with  attention,  with  admiration,  with  ap- 
plause. I  said  to  myself,  when  the  curtain  fell,  '  It  must  be  a 
glorious  thing  to  obtain  this  empire  over  men's  intellects  and 
emotions.'  But  now  an  Italian  mountebank  appeared  on  the 
stage — a  man  of  extraordinary  personal  strength  and  sleight  of 
hand.  He  performed  a  variety  of  juggling  tricks,  and  distorted 
his  body  into  a  thousand  surprising  and  unnatural  postures. 
The  audience  were  transported  beyond  themselves  ;  if  they 
had  felt  delight  in  Hamlet,  they  glowed  with  rapture  at  the 
mountebank  ;  they  had  listened  with  attention  to  the  lofty 
thought,  but  they  were  snatched  from  themselves  by  the  marvel 
of  the  strange  posture.  'Enough,'  said  I;  'I  correct  my 
former  notion.  Where  is  the  glory  of  ruling  men's  minds,  and 
commanding  their  admiration,  when  a  greater  enthusiasm  is 
excited  by  mere  bodily  agility  than  was  kindled  by  the  most 
wonderful  emanations  of  a  genius  little  less  than  divine  ?  '  I 
have  never  forgotten  the  impression  of  that  evening." 

Lester  attempted  to  combat  the  truth  of  the  illustration,  and 


52  EUGENE      ARAM. 

thus  conversing,  they  passed  on  through  the  village  green,  when 
the  gaunt  form  of  Corporal  Bunting  arrested  their  progress. 

"  Beg  pardon,  squire,"  said  he,  with  a  military  salute  ;  "  beg 
pardon,  your  honor,"  bowing  to  Aram  ;  ''  but  I  wanted  to  speak 
to  you,  squire,  'bout  the  rent  of  the  bit  cot  yonder  :  times  very 
hard — pay  scarce — and — " 

"  You  desire  a  little  delay,  Bunting,  eh  ?  Well,  well,  we'll 
see  about  it ;  look  up  at  the  hall  to-morrow.  Mr.  Walter,  I 
know,  wants  to  consult  you  about  letting  the  water  from  the 
great  pond,  and  you  must  give  us  your  opinion  of  the  new 
brewing." 

"  Thank  your  honor,  thank  you  ;  much  obliged,  I'm  sure.  I 
hope  your  honor  liked  the  trout  I  sent  up.  Beg  pardon, 
Master  Aram,  mayhap  you  would  condescend  to  accept  a  few 
fish,  now  and  then  ;  they're  very  fine  in  these  streams,  as  you 
probably  know  ;  if  you  please  to  let  me,  I'll  send  some  up  by 
the  old  'oman  to-morrow ;  that  is,  if  the  day's  cloudy  a  bit." 

The  scholar  thanked  the  good  Bunting,  and  would  have  pro- 
ceeded onward,  but  the  corporal  was  in  a  familiar  mood. 

"Beg  pardon,  beg  pardon,  but  strange-looking  dog  here  last 
evening — asked  after  you — said  you  were  old  friend  of  his — 
trotted  off  in  your  direction — hope  all  was  right,  master  ? — 
augh  !" 

"All  right !"  repeated  Aram, fixing  his  eyes  on  the  corporal, 
who  had  concluded  his  speech  with  a  significant  wink,  and 
pausing  a  full  moment  before  he  continued  ;  then,  as  if  satisfied 
with  his  survey,  he  added  : 

"  Ay,  ay,  I  know  whom  you  mean  :  he  had  become  acquainted 
with  me  some  years  ago.  So  you  saw  him  !  What  said  he  to 
you  of  me?" 

"  Augh  !  little  enough,  Master  Aram :  he  seemed  to  think 
only  of  satisfying  his  own  appetite  :  said  he'd  been  a  soldier." 

"A  soldier!  true!" 

"  Never  told  me  the  regiment,  though  :  shy !  Did  he  ever 
desert,  pray,  your  honor  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Aram,  turning  away  "  I  know 
little,  very  little  about  him  !  "  He  was  going  away,  but  stopped 
to  add  :  "  The  man  called  on  me  last  night  for  assistance  ;  the 
lateness  of  the  hour  a  little  alarmed  me.  I  gave  him  what  I 
could  afford,  and  he  has  now  proceeded  on  his  journey." 

"  Oh,  then  he  won't  take  up  his  quarters  hereabouts,  your 
honor?"  said  the  corporal  inquiringly. 

"No,  no;  good-evening." 

"  What !  this  singular  stranger,  who  so  frightened  my  pool 


EUGENE     ARAM.  53 

girls,  is  really  known  to  you  !  "  said  Lester  in  surprise  :  "  pray, 
is  he  as  formidable  as  he  seemed  to  them  ? " 

"Scarcely,"  said  Aram,  with  great  composure  ;  "he  has  been 
a  wild,  roving  fellow  all  his  life,  but — but  there  is  little  real 
harm  in  him.  He  is  certainly  ill-favored  en.ough  to — "  here, 
interrupting  himself,  and  breaking  into  a  new  sentence,  Aram 
added  :  "  but  at  all  events,  he  will  frighten  your  daughters  no 
more  ;  he  has  proceeded  on  his  journey  northward.  And  now, 
yonder  lies  my  way  home.  Good-evening."  The  abruptness 
of  this  farewell  did  indeed  take  Lester  by  surprise. 

"  Why,  you  will  not  leave  me  yet  ?  The  young  ladies  expect 
your  return  to  them  for  an  hour  or  so  !  What  will  they  think 
of  such  desertion  ?  No,  no,  come  back,  my  good  friend,  and 
suffer  me  by  and  by  to  walk  some  part  of  the  way  home  with 
you." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Aram,  "  I  must  leave  you  now.  As  to 
the  ladies,"  he  added,  with  a  faint  smile,  half  in  melancholy, 
half  in  scorn,  "  I  am  not  one  whom  they  could  miss  ;  forgive 
me  if  I  seem  unceremonious.  Adieu." 

Lester  at  first  felt  a  little  offended,  but  when  he  recalled  the 
peculiar  habits  of  the  scholar,  he  saw  that  the  only  way  to  hope 
for  a  continuance  of  that  society  which  had  so  pleased  him  was 
to  indulge  Aram  at  first  in  his  unsocial  inclinations,  rather  than 
annoy  him  by  a  troublesome  hospitality  ;  he  therefore,  without 
further  discourse,  shook  hands  with  him,  and  they  parted. 

When  Lester  regained  the  little  parlor  he  found  his  nephew 
sitting,  silent  and  discontented,  by  the  window.  Madeline  had 
taken  up  a  book,  and  Ellinor,  in  an  opposite  corner,  was  plying 
her  needle  with  an  air  of  earnestness  and  quiet,  very  unlike  her 
usual  playful  and  cheerful  vivacity.  There  was  evidently  a 
cloud  over  the  group  ;  the  good  Lester  regarded  them  with  a 
searching,  yet  kindly  eye. 

"  And  what  has  happened  ? "  said  he  :  "  something  of  mighty 
import,  I  am  sure,  or  I  should  have  heard  my  pretty  Ellinor's 
merry  laugh  long  before  I  crossed  the  threshold." 

Ellinor  colored  and  sighed,  and  worked  faster  than  ever. 
Walter  threw  open  the  window,  and  whistled  a  favorite  air  quite 
out  of  tune.  Lester  smiled,  and  seated  himself  by  his  nephew. 

"  Well,  Walter,"  said  he,  "  I  feel,  for  the  first  time  these  ten 
years,  that  I  have  a  right  to  scold  you.  What  on  earth  could 
make  you  so  inhospitable  to  your  uncle's  guest  ?  You  eyed 
the  poor  student  as  if  you  wished  him  among  the  books  of 
Alexandria  !  " 

"  I  would    he   were   burnt   with   them  ! "  answered  Walter 


54  EUGENE      ARAM. 

sharply.  "  He  seems  to  have  added  the  black  art  to  his  other 
accomplishments,  and  bewitched  my  fair  cousins  here  into  a 
forgetfulness  of  all  but  himself." 

"  Not  me  !  "  said  Ellinor  eagerly,  and  looking  up. 

"  No,  not  you,  that's  true  enough  ;  you  are  too  just,  too 
kind  ;  it  is  a  pity  that  Madeline  is  not  more  like  you." 

"My  dear  Walter,"  said  Madeline,  "what  is  the  matter? 
You  accuse  me  of  what  ?  being  attentive  to  a  man  whom  it  is 
impossible  to  hear  without  attention  !  " 

"  There  !  "  cried  Walter  passionately  ;  "  you  confess  it.  And 
so  for  a  stranger, — a  cold,  vain,  pedantic  egotist, — you  can  shut 
your  ears  and  heart  to  those  who  have  known  and  loved  you 
all  your  life  ;  and — and — " 

"  Vain  !  "  interrupted  Madeline,  unheeding  the  latter  part 
of  Walter's  address. 

"  Pedantic  !  "  repeated  her  father. 

"  Yes  !  I  say  vain  and  pedantic  ! "  cried  Walter,  working 
himself  into  a  passion.  "  What  on  earth  but  the  love  of  dis- 
play could  make  him  monopolize  the  whole  conversation  ? 
What  but  pedantry  could  make  him  bring  out  those  anecdotes, 
and  allusions,  and  descriptions,  or  whatever  you  call  them, 
respecting  every  old  wall  or  stupid  plant  in  the  country?" 

"  I  never  thought  you  guilty  of  meanness  before,"  said  Les- 
ter gravely. 

"Meanness?" 

"  Yes  !  for  is  it  not  mean  to  be  jealous  of  superior  acquire- 
ments, instead  of  admiring  them  ?" 

"What  has  been  the  use  of  those  acquirements?  Has  he 
benefited  mankind  by  them  ?  Show  me  the  poet — the  histo- 
rian— the  orator,  and  I  will  yield  to  none  of  you  ;  no,  not  to 
Madeline  herself,  in  homage  of  their  genius  :  but  the  mere 
creature  of  books — the  dry  and  sterile  collector  of  other  men's 
learning — no,  no.  What  should  I  admire  in  such  a  machine  of 
literature,  except  a  waste  of  perseverance  ?  And  Madeline 
calls  him  handsome,  too  !  " 

At  this  sudden  turn  from  declamation  to  reproach,  Lester 
laughed  outright ;  and  his  nephew,  in  high  anger,  rose  and  left 
the  room. 

"  Who  could  have  thought  Walter  so  foolish  ?  "  said  Madeline. 

"  Nay,"  observed  Ellinor  gently,  "  it  is  the  folly  of  a  kind 
heart,  after  all.  He  feels  sore  at  our  seeming  to  prefer  an- 
other— I  mean  another's  conversation — to  his  !  " 

Lester  turned  round  in  his  chair,  and  regarded  with  a  serious 
look  the  faces  of  both  sisters. 


EUGENE     ARAM. 


"My  dear  Ellinor,"  said  he,  when  lie  had  finished  his  survey, 
"  You  are  a  kind  girl  ;  come  and  kiss  me  !  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  BEHAVIOR  OF  THE  STUDENT. — A    SUMMER    SCENE. ARAM*S 

CONVERSATION  WITH  WALTER,    AND  SUBSEQUENT     COLLOQUY 
WITH    HIMSELF. 

"  The  soft  season,  the  firmament  serene, 
The  loun  illuminate  air,  and  firth  amene 
The  silver  scalit  fishes  on  the  grete 
O'er-thwart  clear  streams  sprinkillond  for  the  heat." 

— GAWIN  DOUGLAS. 

"Ilia  subter 

Csecum  vulnus  habes  ;  sed  lato  balteus  auro 
Praetegit."  * — PERSIUS. 

SEVERAL  days  elapsed  before  the  family  of  the  manor-house 
encountered  Aram  again.  The  old  woman  came  once  or  twice 
to  present  the  inquiries  of  her  master  as  to  Miss  Lester's  acci- 
dent ;  but  Aram  himself  did  not  appear.  This  want  of  inter- 
est certainly  offended  Madeline,  although  she  still  drew  upon 
herself  Walter's  displeasure  by  disputing  and  resenting  the  un- 
favorable strictures  on  the  scholar  in  which  that  young  gentle- 
man delighted  to  indulge.  By  degrees,  however,  as  the  days 
passed  without  maturing  the  acquaintance  which  Walter  had  dis- 
approved, the  youth  relaxed  in  his  attacks,  and  seemed  to  yield 
to  the  remonstrances  of  his  uncle.  Lester  had,  indeed,  con- 
ceived an  especial  inclination  towards  the  recluse.  Any  man 
of  reflection  who  has  lived  for  some  time  alone,  and  who  sud- 
denly meets  with  one  who  calls  forth  in  him,  and  without  labor 
or  contradiction,  the  thoughts  which  have  sprung  up  in  his  sol- 
itude, scarcely  felt  in  their  growth,  will  comprehend  the  new 
zest,  the  awakening,  as  it  were,  of  the  mind,  which  Lester 
found  in  the  conversation  of  Eugene  Aram.  His  solitary  walk 
(for  his  nephew  had  the  separate  pursuits  of  youth)  appeared 
to  him  more  dull  than  before  ;  and  he  longed  to  renew  an  in- 
tercourse which  had  given  to  the  monotony  of  his  life  both  va- 
riety and  relief.  He  called  twice  upon  Aram,  but  the  student 
was,  or  affected  to  be,  from  home  ;  and  an  invitation  that  Les- 

*  You  have  a  wound  deep  hidden  in  your  heart,  but  the  broad  belt  of  gold  conceals  it. 


56  EUGENE     ARAM. 

ter  sent  him,  though  couched  in  friendly  terms,  was,  but  with 
great  semblance  of  kindness,  refused. 

"  See,  Walter,"  said  Lester,  disconcerted  as  he  finished  read- 
ing the  refusal — "  see  what  your  rudeness  has  effected.  I  am 
quite  convinced  that  Aram  (evidently  a  man  of  susceptible  as 
well  as  retired  mind)  observed  the  coldness  of  your  manner 
towards  him,  and  that  thus  you  have  deprived  me  of  the  only 
society  which,  in  this  wilderness  of  bores  and  savages,  gave  me 
any  gratification." 

Walter  replied  apologetically,  but  his  uncle  turned  away  with 
a  greater  appearance  of  anger  than  his  placid  features  were 
wont  to  exhibit ;  and  Walter,  cursing  the  innocent  cause  of  his 
uncle's  displeasure  towards  him,  took  up  his  fishing-rod  and 
went  out  alone,  in  no  happy  or  exhilarated  mood. 

It  was  waxing  towards  eve — an  hour  especially  lovely  in  the 
month  of  June,  and  not  without  reason  favored  by  the  angler, 
Walter  sauntered  across  the  rich  and  fragrant  fields,  and  came 
soon  into  a  sheltered  valley,  through  which  the  brooklet  wound 
its  shadowy  way.  Along  the  margin  the  grass  sprung  up  long 
and  matted,  and  profuse  with  a.  thousand  weeds  and  flowers — 
the  children  of  the  teeming  June.  Here  the  ivy-leafed  bell- 
flower,  and  not  far  from  it  the  common  enchanter's  nightshade, 
the  silver  weed,  and  the  water-aven  ;  and  by  the  hedges  that 
now  and  then  neared  the  water  the  guelder-rose,  and  the  white 
briony,  overrunning  the  thicket  with  its  emerald  leaves  and 
luxuriant  flowers.  And  here  and  there,  silvering  the  bushes, 
the  elder  offered  its  snowy  tribute  to  the  summer.  All  the  in- 
sect youth  were  abroad,  with  their  bright  wings  and  glancing 
motion  ;  and  from  the  lower  depths  of  the  bushes  the  black- 
bird darted  across,  or  higher  and  unseen  the  first  cuckoo  of 
the  eve  began  its  continuous  and  mellow  note.  All  this  cheer- 
iness  and  gloss  of  life,  which  enamour  us  with  a  few  bright 
days  of  the  English  summer,  make  the  poetry  in  an  angler's  life, 
and  convert  every  idler  at  heart  into  a  moralist,  and  not  a 
gloomy  one,  for  the  time. 

Softened  by  the  quiet  beauty  and  voluptuousness  around 
him,  Walter's  thoughts  assumed  a  more  gentle  dye,  and  he 
broke  out  into  the  old  lines  : 

"  "Sweet  day,  so  soft,  so  calm,  so  bright; 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky," 

as  he  dipped  his  line  into  the  current,  and  drew  it  across  the 
shadowy  hollows  beneath  the  bank.  The  river-gods  were  not, 
however,  in  a  favorable  mood,  and  after  waiting  in  vain  for 


EUGENE      ARAM.  57 

some  time  in  a  spot  in  which  he  was  usually  successful,  he 
proceeded  slowly  along  the  margin  of  the  brooklet,  crush- 
ing the  reeds  at  every  step  into  that  fresh  and  delicious  odor, 
which  furnished  Bacon  with  one  of  his  most  beautiful  com- 
parisons. 

He  thought,  as  he  proceeded,  that  beneath  a  tree  that  over- 
hung the  waters  in  the  narrowest  part  of  their  channel  he 
heard  a  voice,  and  as  he  approached  he  recognized  it  as 
Aram's.  A  curve  in  the  stream  brought  him  close  by  the  spot, 
and  he  saw  the  student  half-reclined  beneath  the  tree,  and 
muttering,  but  at  broken  intervals,  to  himself. 

The  words  were  so  scattered  that  Walter  did  not  trace  their 
clue  ;  but  involuntarily  he  stopped  short  within  a  few  feet  of 
the  soliloquist  :  and  Aram,  suddenly  turning  round,  beheld 
him.  A  fierce  and  abrupt  change  broke  over  the  scholar's 
countenance  ;  his  cheek  grew  now  pale,  now  flushed  ;  and  his 
brows  knit  over  his  flashing  and  dark  eyes  with  an  intent 
anger,  that  was  the  more  withering  from  its  contrast  to  the  usual 
calmness  of  his  features.  Walter  drew  back,  but  Aram,  stalk- 
ing directly  up  to  him,  gazed  into  his  face,  as  if  he  would  read 
his  very  soul. 

"What!  eavesdropping?"  said  he,  with  a  ghastly  smile. 
"  You  overheard  me,  did  you  ?  Well,  well,  what  said  I  ? — 
what  said  I  ?  "  Then  pausing,  and  noting  that  Walter  did  not 
reply,  he  stamped  his  foot  violently,  and  grinding  his  teeth,  re- 
peated in  a  smothered  tone  :  "  Boy  !  what  said  I  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Aram,"  said  Walter,  "  you  forget  yourself.  I  am  not 
one  to  play  the  listener,  more  especially  to  the  learned  ravings 
of  a  man  who  can  conceal  nothing  I  care  to  know.  Accident 
brought  me  hither." 

"  What !  Surely — surely  I  spoke  aloud,  did  I  not  ?  Did  I 
not  ?  " 

"  You  did,  but  so  incoherently  and  indistinctly  that  I  did  not 
profit  by  your  indiscretion.  I  cannot  plagiarize,  I  assure  you, 
fi-om  any  scholastic/iesigns  you  might  have  been  giving  vent  to." 

Aram  looked  on  him  for  a  moment,  and  then,  breathing 
heavily,  turned  away. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said  ;  "  I  am  a  poor,  half-crazed  man  ; 
much  study  has  unnerved  me  ;  I  should  never  live  but  with 
my  own  thoughts  ;  forgive  me,  sir,  I  pray  you/' 

Touched  by  the  sudden  contrition  of  Aram's  manner,  Walter 
forgot,  not  only  his  present  displeasure,  but  his  general  dislike  ; 
he  stretched  forth  his  hand  to  the  student,  and  hastened  to 
Assure  him  of  his  ready  forgiveness.  Aram  sighed  deeply  as 


58  EUGENE      ARAM. 

he  pressed  the  young  man's  hand,  and  Walter  saw,  with  sur- 
prise and  emotion,  that  his  eyes  were  rilled  with  tears. 

"Ah!"  said  Aram,  gently  shaking  his  head,  "  it  is  a  hard 
life  we  book-men  lead  !  Not  for  us  is  the  bright  face  of  noon- 
day or  the  smile  of  woman,  the  gay  unbending  of  the  heart, 
the  neighing  steed,  and  the  shrill  trump  ;  the  pride,  pomp,  and 
circumstance  of  life.  Our  enjoyments  are  few  and  calm  ;  our 
labor  constant ;  but  that  is  not  the  evil,  sir ! — the  body  avenges 
its  own  neglect.  We  grow  old  before  our  time  ;  we  wither  up  ; 
the  sap  of  youth  shrinks  from  our  veins  ;  there  is  no  bound  in 
our  steps.  We  look  about  us  with  dimmed  eyes,  and  our  breath 
grows  short  and  thick,  and  pains,  and  coughs,  and  shooting 
aches,  come  upon  us  at  night :  it  is  a  bitter  life — a  bitter  life — 
a  joyless  life.  I  would  I  had  never  commenced  it.  And  yet 
the  harsh  world  scowls  upon  us  ;  our  nerves  are  broken,  and 
they  wonder  why  we  are  querulous ;  our  blood  curdles,  and 
they  ask  why  we  are  not  gay  ;  our  brain  grows  dizzy  and  indis- 
tinct (as  with  me  just  now),  and  shrugging  their  shoulders,  they 
whisper  their  neighbors  that  we  are  mad.  I  wish  I  had  worked 
at  the  plough,  and  known  sleep,  and  loved  mirth — and — and 
not  been  what  I  am." 

As  the  student  uttered  the  last  sentence,  he  bowed  his  head, 
and  a  few  tears  stole  silently  down  his  cheek.  Walter  was 
greatly  affected  ;  it  took  him  by  surprise  :  nothing  in  Aram's 
ordinary  demeanor  betrayed  any  facility  to  emotion  ;  and  he 
conveyed  to  all  the  idea  of  a  man,  if  not  proud,  at  least  cold. 

"  You  do  not  suffer  bodily  pain,  I  trust  ? "  asked  Walter 
soothingly. 

"  Pain  does  not  conquer  me,"  said  Aram,  slowly  recovering 
himself.  "  I  am  not  melted  by  that  which  I  would  fain  despise. 
Young  man,  I  wronged  you — you  have  forgiven  me.  Well, 
well,  we  will  say  no  more  on  that  head  ;  it  is  past  and  pardoned. 
Your  uncle  has  been  kind  to  me,  and  I  have  not  returned  his 
advances  ;  you  shall  tell  him  why.  I  have  lived  thirteen  years 
by  myself,  and  I  have  contracted  strange  ways  and  many 
humors  not  common  to  the  world — you  have  seen  an  example 
of  this.  Judge  for  yourself  if  I  be  fit  for  the  smoothness,  and 
confidence,  and  ease  of  social  intercourse  ;  I  am  not  fit,  I  feel 
it !  I  am  doomed  to  be  alone  ;  tell  your  uncle  this  ;  tell  him 
to  surfer  me  to  live  so  !  I  am  grateful  for  his  goodness ;  I 
know  his  motives  ;  but. I  have  a  certain  pride  of  mind  ;  I  can- 
not bear  sufferance — I  loathe  indulgence.  Nay,  interrupt  me 
not,  I  beseech  you.  Look  round  on  Nature — behold  the  only 
company  that  humbles  me  not— except  the  dead  whose  souls 


EUGENE      ARAM.  59 

speak  to  U3  from  the  immortality  of  books.  These  herbs  at 
your  feet — I  know  their  secrets,  I  watch  the  mechanism  of 
their  life  ;  the  winds — they  have  taught  me  their  language  ;  the 
stars — I  have  unravelled  their  mysteries  ;  and  these,  the  creatures 
and  ministers  of  God — these  I  offend  not  by  my  mood  ;  to 
them  I  utter  my  thoughts,  and  break  forth  into  my  dreams, 
without  reserve  and  without  fear.  But  men  disturb  me  ;  I 
have  nothing  to  learn  from  them  ;  I  have  no  wish  to  confide  in 
them  ;  they  cripple  the  wild  liberty  which  has  become  to  me  a 
second  nature.  What  its  shell  is  to  the  tortoise,  solitude  has 
become  to  me — my  protection  ;  nay,  my  life  !  " 

"But,"  said  Walter,  ''with  us,  at  least,  you  would  not  have 
to  dread  restraint ;  you  might  come  when  you  would  ;  be  silent 
or  converse,  according  to  your  will." 

Aram  smiled  faintly,  but  made  no  immediate  reply. 

"  So,  you  have  been  angling  !  "  he  said,  after  a  short  pause, 
and  as  if  willing  to  change  the  thread  of  conversation.  "  Fie  ! 
it  is  a  treacherous  pursuit ;  it  encourages  man's  worst  propen- 
sities— cruelty  and  deceit." 

"  I  should  have  thought  a  lover  of  Nature  would  have  been 
more  indulgent  to  a  pastime  which  introduces  us  to  her  most 
quiet  retreats." 

"  And  cannot  Nature  alone  tempt  you  without  need  of  such 
allurements  ?  What !  that  crisped  and  winding  stream,  with 
flowers  on  its  very  tide  ;  the  water-violet  and  the  water-lily ; 
these  silent  brakes  ;  the  cool  of  the  gathering  evening  ;  the  still 
and  luxuriance  of  the  universal  life  around  you — are  not  these 
enough  of  themselves  to  tempt  you  forth  ?  If  not,  go  to  !  your 
excuse  is  hypocrisy." 

"  I  am  used  to  these  scenes,"  replied  Walter  ;  "  I  am  weary 
of  the  thoughts  they  produce  in  me,  and  long  for  any  diversion 
or  excitement." 

"  Ay,  ay,  young  man!  The  mind  is  restless  at  your  age  : 
have  a  care.  Perhaps  you  long  to  visit  the  world  ;  to  quit 
these  obscure  haunts  which  you  are  fatigued  in  admiring  ? " 

"  It  may  be  so,"  said  Walter,  with  a  slight  sigh.  "  I  should 
at  least  like  to  visit  our  great  capital,  and  note  the  contrast ;  I 
should  come  back,  I  imagine,  with  a  greater  zest  to  these 
scenes." 

Aram  laughed.  "  My  friend,"  said  he,  "  when  men  have 
once  plunged  into  the  great  sea  of  human  toil  and  passion,  they 
soon  wash  away  all  love  and  zest  for  innocent  enjoyments. 
What  once  was  a  soft  retirement,  will  become  the  most  intoler- 
able monotony ;  the  gaming  of  social  existence — the  feverish 


60  EUGENE      ARAM. 

and  desperate  chances  of  honor  and  wealth,  upon  which  the 
men  of  cities  set  their  hearts, — render  all  pursuits  less  exciting, 
utterly  insipid  and  dull.  The  brook  and  the  angle — ha  !  ha  ! — 
these  are  not  occupations  for  men  who  have  once  battled  with 
the  world." 

"I  can  forego  them,  then,  without  regret,"  said  Walter,  with 
the  sanguineness  of  his  years.  Aram  looked  upon  him  wist- 
fully ;  the  bright  eye,  the  healthy  cheek,  and  vigorous  frame 
of  the  youth,  suited  with  his  desire  to  seek  the  conflict  of  his 
kind,  and  gave  a  natural  grace  to  his  ambition  which  was  not 
without  interest,  even  to  the  recluse. 

"  Poor  boy !"  said  he  mournfully,  "how  gallantly  the  ship 
leaves  the  port ;  how  worn  and  battered  it  will  return  ! " 

When  they  parted  Walter  returned  slowly  homewards,  filled 
with  pity  for  the  singular  man  whom  he  had  seen  so  strangely 
overpowered  ;  and  wondering  how  suddenly  his  mind  had  lost 
its  former  rancor  to  the  student.  Yet  there  mingled  even  with 
these  kindly  feelings  a  little  displeasure  at  the  superior  tone 
which  Aram  had  unconsciously  adopted  towards  him  ;  and  to 
which,  from  any  one,  the  high  spirit  of  the  young  man  was  not 
readily  willing  to  submit. 

Meanwhile,  the  student  continued  his  path  along  the  water 
side,  and  as,  with  his  gliding  step  and  musing  air,  he  roamed 
onward,  it  was  impossible  to  imagine  a  form  more  suited  to  the 
deep  tranquillity  of  the  scene.  Even  the  wild  birds  seemed  to 
feel  by  a  sort  of  instinct,  that  in  him  there  was  no  cause  for 
fear  ;  and  did  not  stir  from  the  turf  that  neighbored  or  the 
spray  that  overhung  his  path.  "  So,"  said  he,  soliloquizing,  but 
not  without  casting  frequent  and  jealous  glances  round  him,  and 
in  a  murmur  so  indistinct  as  would  have,  been  inaudible  even 
to  a  listener — "  so,  I  was  not  overheard  ;  well,  I  must  cure  my- 
self of  this  habit ;  our  thoughts,  like  nuns,  ought  not  to  go 
abroad  without  a  veil.  Ay,  this  tone  will  not  betray  me;  I 
will  preserve  its  tenor,  for  I  can  scarcely  altogether  renounce 
my  sole  confidant — SELF  ;  and  thought  seems  more  clear  when 
uttered  even  thus.  'Tis  a  fine  youth  !  full  of  the  impulse  and 
daring  of  his  years  ;  /  was  never  so  young  at  heart.  I  was — 
nay,  what  matters  it  ?  Who  is  answerable  for  his  nature  ? 
Who  can  say,  '  I  controlled  all  the  circumstances  which  made 
me  what  I  am?'  Madeline, — heavens  !  did  I  bring  on  myself 
this  temptation  ?  Have  I  not  fenced  it  from  me  throughout 
all  my  youth,  when  my  brain  did  at  moments  forsake  me,  and 
the  veins  did  bound  ?  And  now,  when  the  yellow  hastens  on 
the  green  of  life ;  now,  for  the  first  time,  this  emotion — this 


EUGENE     ARAM.  6 1 

weakness — and  for  whom  ?  One  I  have  lived  with — known — 
beneath  whose  eyes  I  have  passed  through  all  the  fine  grada- 
tions, from  liking  to  love,  from  love  to  passion  ?  No ;  one, 
whom  I  have  seen  but  little  ;  who,  it  is  true,  arrested  my  eye  at 
the  first  glance  it  caught  of  her  two  years  since,  but  to  whom, 
till  within  the  last  few  weeks,  I  have  scarcely  spoken  !  Her 
voice  rings  in  my  ear,  her  look  dwells  on  my  heart ;  when  I 
sleep  she  is  with  me;  when  I  wake  lam  haunted  by  her  image. 
Strange,  strange  !  Is  love,  then,  after  all,  the  sudden  passion 
which  in  every  age  poetry  has  termed  it,  though  till  now  my 
reason  has  disbelieved  the  notion !  .  .  .  . 

"  And  now,  what  is  the  question  ?  To  resist,  or  to  yield. 
Her  father  invites  me,  courts  me ;  and  I  stand  aloof.  Will 
this  strength,  this  forbearance,  last  ?  Shall  I  encourage  my 
mind  to  this  decision  ?  "  Here  Aram  paused  abruptly,  and 
then  renewed  :  "  It  is  true  !  I  ought  to  weave  my  lot  with 
none.  Memory  sets  me  apart  and  alone  in  the  world  ;  it  seems 
unnatural  to  me — a  thought  of  dread — to  bring  another  being 
to  my  solitude,  to  set  an  everlasting  watch  on  my  uprisings  and 
my  downsittings  ;  to  invite  eyes  to  my  face  when  I  sleep  at  nights, 
and  ears  to  every  word  that  may  start  unbidden  from  my  lips. 
But  if  the  watch  be  the  watch  of  love — away  !  does  love  endure 
forever  ?  He  who  trusts  to  woman,  trusts  to  the  type  of  change. 
Affection  may  turn  to  hatred,  fondness  to  loathing,  anxiety  to 
dread  ;  and,  at  the  best,  woman  is  weak  ;  she  is  the  minion  to 
her  impulses.  Enough  ;  I  will  steel  my  soul ;  shut  up  the 
avenues  of  sense  ;  brand  with  the  scathing-iron  these  yet  green 
and  soft  emotions  of  lingering  youth  ;  and  freeze,  and  chain, 
and  curdle  up  feeling,  and  heart,  and  manhood,  into  ice  and 
age ! " 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  POWER  OF  LOVE  OVER  THE  RESOLUTION  OF  THE  STUDENT. — 
ARAM  BECOMES  A  FREQUENT  GUEST  AT  THE  MANOR- 
HOUSE. — A  WALK. — CONVERSATION  WITH  DAME  DARKMANS. — 

HER  HISTORY. — POVERTY  AND  ITS  EFFECTS. 


"Mad.  Then,  as  time  won  thee  frequent  to  our  hearth, 
Dklst  thou  not  breathe,  like  dreams,  into  my  soul. 
Nature's  more  gentle  secrets,  the  sweet  lore 
Of  the  green  herb  and  the  bee-worshipped  flower  ? 
And  when  deep  Night  did  o'er  the  nether  Earth 


62  EUGENE      ARAM. 

Diffuse  meek  quiet,  and  the  Heart  of  Heaven 

With  love  grew  breathless — didst  thou  not  unroll 

The  volume  of  the  weird  Chaldean  stars, 

And  of  the  winds,  the  clouds,  the  invisible  air, 

Make  eloquent  discotuse,  until,  methought, 

No  human  lip,  but  some  diviner  spirit 

Alone,  could  prtach  such  truths  of  things  divine? 

And  so — and  so — 

Aram.  From  Heaven  we  turn'd  to  Earth 

And  Wisdom  fathered  Passion. 

****** 
Aram.  Wise  men  have  praised  the  Peasant's  thoughtless  lot, 

And  learned  Pride  hath  envied  humble  Toil : 

If  they  were  right,  why  let  us  burn  our  books, 

And  sit  us  down,  and  play  the  fool  with  Time, 

Mocking  the  prophet  Wisdom's  high  decrees, 

And  walling  this  trite  Present  with  dark  clouds 

Till  Night  becomes  our  Nature  ;  and  the  ray 

Ev'n  of  the  stars,  but  meteors  that  withdraw 

The  wandering  spirit  from  the  sluggish  rest 

Which  makes  its  proper  bliss.     I  will  accost 

This  denizen  of  toil." — From  Eugene  Aram,  a  MS.  Tragedy, 

"  A  wicked  hag,  and  envy's  self  excelling 
In  mischiefe,  for  herself  she  only  vext, 
But  this  same,  both  herself  and  others  eke  perplext. 

****** 
Who  then  can  strive  with  strong  necessity, 
That  holds  the  world  in  his  still  changing  state?  etc.,  etc. 
Then  do  no  further  go,  no  further  stray, 
But  here  lie  down,  and  to  thy  rest  betake." — SPENSER. 

FEW  men,  perhaps,  could  boast  of  so  masculine  and  firm  a 
mind  as,  despite  his  eccentricities,  Aram  assuredly  possessed. 
His  habits  of  solitude  had  strengthened  its  natural  hardihood; 
for,  accustomed  to  make  all  the  sources  of  happiness  flow  solely 
from  himself,  his  thoughts  the  only  companions,  his  genius  the 
only  vivifier,  of  his  retreat ;  the  tone  and  faculty  of  his  spirit 
could  not  but  assume  that  austere  and  vigorous  en- 
ergy which  the  habit  of  self-dependence  almost  invari- 
ably produces ;  and  yet  the  reader,  if  he  be  young, 
will  scarcely  feel  surprised  that  the  resolution  of  the 
student,  to  battle  against  incipient  love,  from  whatever 
reasons  it  might  be  formed,  gradually  and  reluctantly  melted 
away.  It  may  be  noted  that  the  enthusiasts  of  learning  and 
revery  have,  at  one  time  or  another  in  their  lives,  been,  of  all 
the  tribes  of  men,  the  most  keenly  susceptible  to  love  ;  their 
solitude  feeds  their  passion  ;  and  deprived,  as  they  usually  are, 
of  the  more  hurried  and  vehement  occupations  of  life,  when 


EUGENE     ARAM.  63 

love  is  once  admitted  to  their  hearts  there  is  no  counter-check 
to  its  emotions,  and  no  escape  from  its  excitement.  Aram,  too, 
had  just  arrived  at  that  age  when  a  man  usually  feels  a  sort  of 
revulsion  in  the  current  of  his  desires.  At  that  age,  those  who 
have  hitherto  pursued  love  begin  to  grow  alive  to  ambition  ; 
those  who  have  been  slaves  to  the  pleasures  of  life  awaken  from 
the  dream,  and  direct  their  desire  to  its  interests.  And  in  the 
same  proportion,  they  who  till  then  have  wasted  the  prodigal 
fervors  of  youth  upon  a  sterile  soil, — who  have  served  Ambition, 
or,  like  Aram,  devoted  their  hearts  to  Wisdom — relax  from 
their  ardor,  look  back  on  the  departed  years  with  regret,  and 
commence,  in  their  manhood,  the  fiery  pleasures  and  delirious 
follies  which  are  only  pardonable  in  youth.  In  short,  as  in 
every  human  pursuit  there  is  a  certain  vanity,  and  as  every  ac- 
quisition contains  within  itself  the  seed  of  disappointment,  so 
there  is  a  period  of  life  when  we  pause  from  the  pursuit,  and 
are  discontented  with  the  acquisition.  We  then  look  around 
us  for  something  new — again  follow,  and  are  again  deceived. 
Few  men  throughout  life  are  the  servants  to  one  desire.  When 
we  gain  the  middle  of  the  bridge  of  our  mortality,  different  ob- 
jects from  those  which  attracted  us  upward  almost  invariably 
lure  us  down  the  descent.  Happy  they  who  exhaust  in  the 
former  part  of  the  journey  all  the  foibles  of  existence  !  But 
how  different  is  the  crude  and  evanescent  love  of  that  age  when 
thought  has  not  given  intensity  and  power  to  the  passions,  from 
the  love  which  is  felt,/^/-  the  first  time,  in  maturer  but  still 
youthful  years  !  As  the  flame  burns  the  brighter  in  proportion 
to  the  resistance  which  it  conquers,  this  later  love  is  the  more 
glowing  in  proportion  to  the  length  of  time  in  which  it  has 
overcome  temptation  ;  all  the  solid  and  concentred  faculties, 
ripened  to  their  full  height,  are  no  longer  capable  of  the  infinite 
distractions,  the  numberless  caprices  of  youth  ;  the  rays  of  the 
heart,  not  rendered  weak  by  diversion,  collect  into  one  burning 
focus  ;*  the  same  earnestness  and  unity  of  purpose  which  ren- 
der what  we  undertake  in  manhood  so  far  more  successful  than 
what  we  would  effect  in  youth,  are  equally  visible  and  equally 
triumphant,  whether  directed  to  interest  or  to  love.  But  then, 
as  in  Aram,  the  feelings  must  be  fresh  as  well  as  matured  ; 
they  must  not  have  been  frittered  away  by  previous  indulgence  ; 
the  love  must  be  the  first  produce  of  the  soil,  not  the  languid 
after-growth. 

The  reader  will  remark  that  the  first  time  in  which  our  nar- 

*  "  Love   is  of  the   nature  ol   a  burning-glass,  whith,  kept  still   in   one   place,  firgtb  \ 
changed  often,  it  doth  nothing  !  "—-Letters  by  Sir  John  Suckling. 


64  EUGENE     ARAM. 

rative  has  brought  Madeline  and  Aram  together,  was  not  the 
first  time  they  had  met :  Aram  hud  long  noted  with  admiration 
a  beauty  which  he  had  never  seen  paralleled,  and  certain  vague 
and  unsettled  feelings  had  preluded  the  deep  emotion  that  her 
image  now  excited  within  him.  But  the  main  cause  of  his 
present  and  growing  attachment  had  been  in  the  evident  senti- 
ment of  kindness  which  he  could  not  but  feel  Madeline  bore 
towards  him.  So  retiring  a  nature  as  his  might  never  have  har- 
bored love,  if  the  love  bore  the  character  of  presumption  ;  but 
that  one  so  beautiful  beyond  his  dreams  as  Madeline  Lester 
should  deign  to  cherish  for  him  a  tenderness  that  might  suffer 
him  to  hope,  was  a  thought  that,  when  he  caught  her  eye  un- 
consciously fixed'  upon  him,  and  noted  that  her  voice  grew 
softer  and  more  tremulous  when  she  addressed  him,  forced  it- 
self upon  his  heart,  and  woke  there  a  strange  and  irresistible 
emotion  which  solitude  and  the  brooding  reflection  that  soli- 
tude produces — a  reflection  so  much  more  intense  in  propor- 
tion to  the  paucity  of  living  images  it  dwells  upon — soon  ripened 
into  love.  Perhaps,  even,  he  would  not  have  resisted  the  im- 
pulse as  he  now  did,  had  not,  at  this  time,  certain  thoughts  con- 
nected with  past  events  been  more  forcibly  than  of  late  years 
obtruded  upon  him,  and  thus  in  some  measure  divided  his 
heart.  By  degrees,  however,  those  thoughts  receded  from  their 
vividness,  into  the  habitual  deep,  but  not  oblivious,  shade,  be- 
neath which  his  commanding  mind  had  formerly  driven  them 
to  repose ;  and  as  they  thus  receded,  Madeline's  image  grew 
more  undisturbedly  present,  and  his  resolution  to  avoid  its  power 
more  fluctuating  and  feeble.  Fate  seemed  bent  upon  bringing 
together  these  two  persons,  already  so  attracted  towards  each 
other.  After  the  conversation  recorded  in  our  last  chapter 
between  Walter  and  the  student,  the  former,  touched  and  soft- 
ened as  we  have  seen  in  spite  of  himself,  had  cheerfully  for- 
borne (what  before  he  had  done  reluctantly)  the  expressions  of 
dislike  which  he  had  once  lavished  so  profusely  upon  Aram  ; 
and  Lester,  who,  forward  as  he  had  seemed,  had  nevertheless 
been  hitherto  a  little  checked  in  his  advances  to  his  neighbor 
by  the  hostility  of  his  nephew,  felt  no  scruple  to  deter  him  from 
urging  them  with  a  pertinacity  that  almost  forbade  refusal.  It 
was  Aram's  constant  habit,  in  all  seasons,  to  wander  abroad  at 
certain  times  of  the  day,  especially  towards  the  evening ;  and 
if  Lester  failed  to  win  entrance  to  his  house,  he  was  thus  enabled 
to  meet  the  student  in  his  frequent  rambles,  and  with  a  seeming 
freedom  from  design.  Actuated  by  his  great  benevolence  of 
character,  Lester  earnestly  desired  to  win  his  solitary  and  un- 


EUGENE      ARAM.  65 

friended  neighbor  from  a  mood  and  habit  which  he  naturally 
imagined  must  engender  a  growing  melancholy  of  mind  :  and 
since  Walter  had  detailed  to  him  the  particulars  of  his  meeting 
with  Aram,  this  desire  had  been  considerably  increased.  There 
is  not,  perhaps,  a  stronger  feeling  in  the  world  than  pity,  when 
united  with  admiration.  When  one  man  is  resolved  to  know 
another,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  prevent  it :  we  see  daily  the 
most  remarkable  instances  of  perseverance  on  one  side  con- 
quering distaste  on  the  other.  By  degrees,  then,  Aram  relaxed 
from  his  insociability ;  he  seemed  to  surrender  himself  to  a 
kindness,  the  sincerity  of  which  he  was  compelled  to  acknowl- 
edge ;  if  he  for  a  long  time  refused  to  accept  the  hospitality  of 
his  neighbor,  he  did  not  reject  his  society  when  they  met,  and 
this  intercourse  increased  by  little  and  little  ;  until,  ultimately, 
the  recluse  yielded  to  solicitation,  and  became  the  guest  as  well 
as  companion.  This,  at  first  accident,  grew,  though  not  with- 
out many  interruptions,  into  habit ;  and,  at  length,  few  even- 
ings were  passed  by  the  inmates  of  the  manor-house  without 
the  society  of  the  student. 

As  his  reserve  wore  off,  his  conversation  mingled  with  its  at- 
tractions a  tender  and  affectionate  tone.  He  seemed  grateful 
for  the  p:iins  which  had  been  taken  to  allure  him  to  a  scene  in 
which,  at  last,  he  acknowledged  he  found  a  happiness  that  he 
had  never  experienced  before  :  and  those  who  had  hitherto  ad- 
mired him  for  his  genius,  admired  him  now  yet  more  for  his 
susceptibility  to  the  affections. 

There  was  not  in  Aram  anything  that  savored  of  the  harsh- 
ness of  pedantry,  or  the  petty  vanities  of  dogmatism  :  his  voice 
was  soft  and  low,  and  his  manner  always  remarkable  for  its 
singular  gentleness,  and  a  certain  dignified  humility.  His  lan- 
guage did,  indeed,  at  times,  assume  a  tone  of  calm  and  patri- 
archal command  ;  but  it  was  only  the  command  arising  from 
an  intimate  persuasion  of  the  truth  of  what  he  uttered.  Mor- 
alizing upon  our  nature,  or  mourning  over  the  delusions  of  the 
world,  a  grave  and  solemn  strain  breathed  throughout  his  lofty 
words  and  the  profound  melancholy  of  his  wisdom  :  but  it 
touched,  not  offended — elevated,  not  humbled — the  lesser  in- 
tellect of  his  listeners  ;  and  even  this  air  of  unconscious  superi- 
ority vanished  when  he  was  invited  to  teach  or  explain. 

That  task  which  so  few  do  gracefully,  that  an  accurate  and 
shrewd  thinker  has  said,  "  It  is  always  safe  to  learn,  even  from 
our  enemies  ;  seldom  safe  to  instruct  even  our  friends," ' 
Aram  performed  with  a  meekness  and  simplicity  that  charmed 

*  Lacon. 


66  EUGENE     ARAM. 

the  vanity,  even  while  it  corrected  the  ignorance,  of  the  appli- 
cant ;  and  so  various  and  so  minute  was  the  information  of 
this  accomplished  man,  that  there  scarcely  existed  any  branch 
even  of  that  knowledge  usually  called  practical,  to  which  he 
could  not  impart  from  his  stores  something  valuable  and  new. 
The  agriculturist  was  astonished  at  the  success  of  his  sugges- 
tions ;  and  the  mechanic  was  indebted  to  him  for  the  device 
which  abridged  his  labor  in  improving  its  result. 

It  happened  that  the  study  of  botany  was  not,  at  that  day, 
so  favorite  and  common  a  diversion  with  young  ladies  as  it  is 
now  ;  and  Ellinor,  captivated  by  the  notion  of  a  science  that 
gave  a  life  and  a  history  to  the  loveliest  of  earth's  offspring,  be- 
sought Aram  to  teach  her  its  principles. 

As  Madeline,  though  she  did  not  second  the  request,  could 
scarcely  absent  herself  from  sharing  the  lesson,  this  pursuit 
brought  the  pair — already  lovers — closer  and  closer  together. 
It  associated  them  not  only  at  home,  but  in  their  rambles 
throughout  that  enchanting  country  ;  and  there  is  a  mysterious 
influence  in  Nature  which  renders  us,  in  her  loveliest  scenes, 
the  most  susceptible  to  love  !  Then,  too,  how  often  in  their 
occupation  their  hands  and  eyes  met :  how  often,  by  the  shady 
wood  or  the  soft  water-side,  they  found  themselves  alone.  In 
all  times,  how  dangerous  the  connection,  when  of  different  sexes, 
between  the  scholar  and  the  teacher  !  Under  how  many  pre- 
tences, in  that  connection,  the  heart  finds  the  opportunity  to 
speak  out. 

Yet  it  was  not  with  ease  and  complacency  that  Aram  de- 
livered himself  to  the  intoxication  of  his  deepening  attachment. 
Sometimes  he  was  studiously  cold,  or  evidently  wrestling  with 
the  powerful  passion  that  mastered  his  reason.  It  was  not  with- 
out many  throes  and  desperate  resistance,  that  love  at  length 
overwhelmed  and  subdued  him  ;  and  these  alternations  of  his 
mood,  if  they  sometimes  offended  Madeline  and  sometimes 
wounded,  still  rather  increased  than  lessened  the  spell  which 
bound  her  to  him.  The  doubt  and  the  fear,  the  caprice  and 
the  change,  which  agitate  the  surface,  swell  also  the  tides,  of 
passion.  Woman,  too,  whose  love  is  so  much  the  creature  of 
her  imagination,  always  asks  something  of  mystery  and  conjec- 
ture in  the  object  of  her  affection.  It  is  a  luxury  to  her  to  per- 
plex herself  with  a  thousand  apprehensions  ;  and  the  more 
restlessly  her  lover  occupies  her  mind,  the  more  deeply  he 
enthrals  it. 

Mingling  with  her  pure  and  tender  attachment  to  Aram  a 
high  and  unswerving  veneration,  she  saw  in  his  fitfulness,  and 


EUGENE     ARAM.  67 

occasional  abstraction  and  contradiction  of  manner,  a  con- 
firmation of  the  modest  sentiment  that  most  weighed  upon  her 
fears  ;  and  imagined  that,  at  those  times,  he  thought  her,  as 
she  deemed  herself,  unworthy  of  his  love.  And  this  was  the 
only  struggle  which  she  conceived  to  pass  between  the  affection 
he  evidently  bore  her,  and  the  feelings  which  had  as  yet  re- 
strained him  from  its  open  avowal. 

One  evening  Lester  and  the  two  sisters  were  walking  with 
the  student  along  the  valley  that  led  to  the  house  of  the  latter, 
when  they  saw  an  old  woman  engaged  in  collecting  firewood 
among  the  bushes,  and  a  little  girl  holding  out  her  apron  to 
receive  the  sticks  with  which  the  crone's  skinny  arms  unspar-- 
ingly  filled  it.  The  child  trembled,  and  seemed  half  crying ; 
while  the  old  woman,  in  a  harsh,  grating  croak,  was  muttering 
forth  mingled  objurgation  and  complaint. 

There  was  something  in  the  appearance  of  the  latter  at  once 
impressive  and  displeasing  ;  a  dark,  withered,  furrowed  skin 
was  drawn  like  parchment  over  harsh  and  aquiline  features  ; 
the  eyes,  through  the  rheum  of  age,  glittered  forth  black  and 
malignant ;  and  even  her  stooping  posture  did  not  conceal  a 
height  greatly  above  the  common  stature,  though  gaunt  and 
shrivelled  with  years  and  poverty.  It  was  a  form  and  face  that 
might  have  recalled  at  once  the  celebrated  description  of  Ot- 
way,  on  a  part  of  which  we  have  already  unconsciously  en- 
croached, and  the  remaining  part  of  which  we  shall  wholly 
borrow  : 

"  On  her  crooked  shoulders  had  she  wrapp'd 
The  tatter'd  remnants  of  an  old  stript  hanging, 
That  served  to  keep  her  carcass  from  the  cold. 
So  there  was  nothing  of  a  piece  about  her. 
Her  lower  weeds  were  all  o'er  coarsely  patch'd 
With  different-colored  rags,  black,  red,  white,  yellow, 
And  seem'd  to  speak  variety  of  wretchedness." 

"  See,"  said  Lester,  "  one  of  the  eyesores  of  our  village  (I 
might  say),  the  only  discontented  person." 

"  What !  Dame  Darkmans  !  "  said  Ellinor  quickly.  "Ah  ! 
let  us  turn  back.  I  hate  to  encounter  that  old  woman  ;  there 
is  something  so  evil  and  savage  in  her  manner  of  talk  ;  and 
look,  how  she  rates  that  poor  girl,  whom  she  has  dragged  or 
decoyed  to  assist  her  !  " 

Aram  looked  curiously  on  the  old  hag.  "Poverty,"  said  he, 
"makes  some  humble,  but  more  malignant  ;  is  it  not  want  that 
grafts  the  devil  on  this  poor  woman's  nature  ?  Come,  let  us 
accost  her  ;  I  like  conferring  with  distress." 


68  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"  It  is  hard  labor  this  ?  "  said  the  student  gently. 

The  old  woman  looked  up  askant  ;  the  music  of  the  voice 
that  addressed  her  sounded  harsh  on  her  ear. 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  she  answered.  "  You  fine  gentlefolks  can  know 
what  the  poor  suffer  ;  ye  talk  and  ye  talk,  but  ye  never 
assist." 

"Say  not  so,  dame,"  said  Lester  ;  "  did  I  not  send  you  but 
yesterday  bread  and  money  ?  And  when  did  you  ever  look  up 
at  the  hall  without  obtaining  relief  ?  " 

"  But  the  bread  was  as  dry  as  a  stick,"  growled  the  hag  :  and 
the  money,  what  was  it?  will  it  last  a  week?  Oh,  yes  !  Ye 
fhink  as  much  of  your  doils  and  mites  as  if  ye  stripped  your- 
selves of  a  comfort  to  give  it  to  us.  Did  ye  have  a  dish  less — 
a  'tato  less,  the  day  ye  sent  me — your  charity  I  'spose  ye  calls 
it?  Och  !  fie  !  But  the  Bible's  the  poor  cretur's  comfort." 

"  J  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  dame,"  said  the  good- 
natured  Lester ;  "  and  I  forgive  everything  else  you  have  said, 
on  account  of  that  one  sentence." 

The  old  woman  dropped  the  sticks  she  had  just  gathered, 
and  glowered  at  the  speaker's  benevolent  countenance  with  a 
malicious  meaning  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"  An'  ye  do  ?  Well,  I'm  glad  I  please  ye  there.  Och  !  yes  ! 
the  Bible's  a  mighty  comfort  ;  for  it  says  as  much  that  the  rich 
man  shall  not  Ynter  the  kingdom  of  Heaven  !  There's  a  truth 
for  you,  that  makes  the/<w  folks'  heart  chirp  like  a  cricket — 
ho  !  ho  !  /  sits  by  the  mibers  of  a  night,  and  I  thinks  and 
thinks  as  how  I  shall  see  you  all  burning  ;  and  ye'll  ask  me  for 
a  drop  o'  water,  and  I  shall  laugh  thm  from  my  pleasant  seat 
with  the  angels.  Och  !  it's  a  book  for  the  poor  that  !  " 

The  sisters  shuddered.  "And  you  think,  then,  that  with 
envy,  malice,  and  all  uncharitableness  at  your  heart,  you  are 
certain  of  Heaven  ?  For  shame  !  Pluck  the  mote  from  your 
own  eye  !  " 

"  What  sinnifies  praching  ?  Did  not  the  Blessed  Saviour 
come  for  the  poor  ?  Them  as  has  rags  and  dry  bread  here 
will  be  ixalted  in  the  nixt  world  ;  an'  if  we  poor  folk  have  mal- 
ice, as  ye  calls  it,  whose's  fault's  that  ?  What  do  ye  tache  us? 
Eh  ?  Answer  me  that.  Ye  keeps  all  the  laming  an'  all  the 
other  fine  things  to  yourseF,  and  then  ye  scould,  and  thritten, 
and  hang  us,  'cause  we  are  not  as  wise  as  you.  Och  !  there's 
no  jistice  in  the  Lamb,  if  Heaven  is  not  made  for  us  ;  and  the 
iverlasting  Hell,  with  its  brimstone  and  fire,  and  its  gnawing 
an'  gnashing  of  teeth,  an'  its  theirst,  an'  its  torture,  an*  its 
worm  that  niver  dies,  for  the  like  o'  you." 


EUGENE      ARAM.  69 

"Come!  come  away,"  said  Ellinor,  pulling  her  father's 
arm. 

"And  if,"  said  Aram,  pausing,  "if  I  were  to  say  to  you — 
name  your  want  and  it  shall  be  fulfilled,  would  you  have  no 
charity  for  me  also  ?  " 

"  Umph  !  "  returned  the  hag,  "  ye  are  the  great  scolard  ; 
and  they  say  ye  knows  what  no  one  else  do.  T/I1  me  now," 
and  she  approached,  and  familiarly  laid  her  bony  finger  on  the 
student's  arm  ;  "  t/11  me — have  ye  iver,  among  other  fine  things, 
known  poverty  ?  " 

"  I  have,  woman  !  "  said  Aram  sternly. 

"  Och,  ye  have  thm  !  And  did  ye  not  sit,  and  gloom,  and 
eat  up  your  oun  heart,  an'  curse  the  sun  that  looked  so  gay, 
an'  the  winged  things  that  played  so  blithe-like,  an'  scowl  at 
the  rich  folk  that  niver  wasted  a  thought  on  ye  ?  TV  11  me  now, 
your  honor,  t/11  me  !  " 

And  the  crone  curtseyed  with  a  mock  air  of  beseeching 
humility. 

"  I  never  forgot,  even  in  want,  the  love  due  to  my  fellow- 
sufferers  ;  for,  woman,  we  all  suffer,  the  rich  and  the  poor  ; 
there  are  worse  pangs  than  those  of  want  !  " 

"  Ye  think  there  be,  do  ye  ?  That's  a  comfort — umph  ! 
Well,  I'll  t/11  ye  now,  I  feel  a  rispict  for  you  that  I  don't  for 
the  rest  on  'em  ;  for  your  face  does  not  insult  me  with  being 
cheary  like  theirs  yonder;  an'  I  have  noted  ye  walk  in  the 
dusk  with  your  eyes  down  and  your  arms  crossed  ;  an'  I  have 
said, — that  man  I  do  not  hate,  somehow,  for  he  has  something 
dark  at  his  heart  like  me !  " 

"  The  lot  of  earth  is  woe,"  answered  Aram  calmly,  yet 
shrinking  back  from  the  crone's  touch  ;  "  judge  we  charitably, 
and  act  we  kindly  to  each  other.  There — this  money  is  not 
much,  but  it  will  light  your  hearth  and  heap  your  table  with- 
out toil,  for  some  days  at  least  !  " 

"  Thank  your  honor ;.  an'  what  think  you  I'll  do  with  the 
money  ? " 

"  What  ? " 

"  Drink,  drink,  drink!"  cried  the  hag  fiercely.  "There's 
nothing  like  drink  for  the  poor,  for  th/n  we  fancy  ourselves 
what  we  wish  ;  and,"  sinking  her  voice  into  a  whisper,  "  I 
thinks  th/n  that  1  have  my  foot  on  the  billies  of  the  rich  folks, 
and  my  hands  twisted  about  their  intrails,  and  I  hear  them 
shriek,  and — th/n  I'm  happy." 

"  Go  home  ! "  said  Aram,  turning  away,  "  and  open  the  Book 
of  Life  with  other  thoughts." 


70  EUGENE     ARAM. 

The  little  party  proceeded,  and,  looking  back,  Lester  saw  the 
old  woman  gaze  after  them,  till  a  turn  in  the  winding  valley 
hid  her  from  his  sight. 

"  That  is  a  strange  person,  Aram  ;  scarcely  a  favorable  spec- 
imen of  the  happy  English  peasant,"  said  Lester,  smiling. 

"  Yet  they  say,"  added  Madeline,  "that  she  was  not  always 
the  same  perverse  and  hateful  creature  she  is  now." 

"  Ay,"  said  Aram  ;  "  and  what,  then,  is  her  history  ? " 

"  Why,"  replied  Madeline,  slightly  blushing  to  find  herself 
made  the  narrator  of  a  story,  "some  forty  years  ago  this  woman, 
so  gaunt  and  hideous  now,  was  the  beauty  of  the  village.  She 
married  an  Irish  soldier,  whose  regiment  passed  through  Grass- 
dale,  and  was  heard  of  no  more  till  about  ten  years  back,  when 
she  returned  to  her  native  place,  the  discontented,  envious, 
altered  being  you  now  see  her." 

"  She  is  not  reserved  in  regard  to  her  past  life,"  said  Lester. 
"  She  is  too  happy  to  seize  the  attention  of  any  one  to  whom 
she  can  pour  forth  her  dark  and  angry  confidence.  She  saw 
her  husband,  who  was  afterwards  dismissed  the  service — a 
strong,  powerful  man,  a  giant  of  his  tribe, — pine  and  waste, 
inch  by  inch,  from  mere  physical  want,  and  at  last,  literally  die 
from  hunger.  It  happened  that  they  had  settled  in  the  county 
in  which  her  husband  was  born,  and  in  that  county  those  fre- 
quent famines  which  are  the  scourge  of  Ireland  were  for  two 
years  especially  severe.  You  may  note  that  the  old  woman  has 
a  strong  vein  of  coarse  eloquence  at  her  command,  perhaps  ac- 
quired in  (for  it  partakes  of  the  natural  character  of)  the  coun- 
try in  which  she  lived  so  long  ;  and  it  would  literally  thrill  you 
with  horror  to  hear  her  descriptions  of  the  misery  and  destitu- 
tion that  she  witnessed,  and  amidst  which  her  husband  breathed 
his  last.  Out  of  four  children,  not  one  survives.  One,  an  in- 
fant, died  within  a  week  of  the  father  ;  two  sons  .were  exe- 
cuted, one  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  one  a  year  older,  for  robbery 
committed  under  aggravated  circumstances  ;  and  a  fourth,  a 
daughter,  died  in  the  hospitals  of  London.  The  old  woman 
became  a  wanderer  and  a  vagrant,  and  was  at  length  passed  to 
her  native  parish,  where  she  has  since  dwelt.  These  are  the 
misfortunes  which  have  turned  her  blood  to  gall  ;  and  these 
are  the  causes  which  fill  her  with  so  bitter  a  hatred  against 
those  whom  wealth  has  preserved  from  sharing  or  witnessing  a 
fate  similar  to  hers." 

"Oh  !"  said  Aram,  in  a  low,  but  deep  tone,  "when — when 
will  these  hideous  disparities  be  banished  from  the  world? 
How  many  noble  natures — how  many  glorious  hopes — how 


EUGENE      ARAM.  Jl 

much  of  the  seraph's  intellect,  have  been  crushed  into  the  mire, 
or  blasted  into  guilt,  by  the  mere  force  of  physical  want ! 
What  are  the  temptations  of  the  rich  to  those  of  the  poor  ? 
Yet,  see  how  lenient  we  are  to  the  crimes  of  the  one,  how  re- 
lentless to  those  of  the  other  !  It  is  a  bad  world  ;  it  makes  a 
man's  heart  sick  to  look  around  him.  The  consciousness  of 
how  little  individual  genius  can  do  to  relieve  the  mass,  grinds 
out,  as  with  a  stone,  all  that  is  generous  in  ambition,  and  to 
aspire  from  the  level  of  life  is  but  to  be  more  graspingly  selfish." 

"  Can  legislators,  or  the  moralists  that  instruct  legislators, 
do  so  little,  then,  towards  universal  good  ? "  said  Lester 
doubtingly. 

"  Why,  what  can  they  do  but  forward  civilization.  And 
what  is  civilization,  but  an  increase  of  human  disparities  ?  The 
more  the  luxury  of  the  few,  the  more  startling  the  wants,  and 
the  more  galling  the  sense,  of  poverty.  Even  the  dreams  of 
the  philanthropist  only  tend  towards  equality ;  and  where  is 
equality  to  be  found,  but  in  the  state  of  the  savage  ?  No  ;  I 
thought  otherwise  once  :  but  I  now  regard  the  vast  lazar-house 
around  us  without  hope  of  relief  ;  death  is  the  sole  physician  !  " 

"Ah,  no,"  said  the  high-sotiled  Madeline  eagerly;  "do 
not  take  away  from  us  the  best  feeling  and  the  highest  desire 
we  can  cherish.  How  poor,  even  in  this  beautiful  world,  with 
the  warm  sun  and  fresh  air  about  us,  would  be  life,  if  we  could 
not  make  the  happiness  of  others  !  " 

Aram  looked  at  the  beautiful  speaker  with  a  soft  and  half- 
mournful  smile.  There  is  one  very  peculiar  pleasure  that  we 
feel  as  we  grow  older — it  is  to  see  embodied,  in  another  and 
a  more  lovely  shape,  the  thoughts  and  sentiments  we  once 
nursed  ourselves  ;  it  is  as  if  we  viewed  before  us  the  incarnation 
of  our  own  youth  ;  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  we  are  warmed  to- 
wards the  object,  that  thus  seems  the  living  apparition  of  all 
that  was  brightest  in  ourselves  !  It  was  with  this  sentiment 
that  Aram  now  gazed  on  Madeline.  She  felt  the  gaze,  and  her 
heart  beat  delightfully  ;  but  she  sunk  at  once  into  a  silence, 
which  she  did  not  break  during  the  rest  of  their  walk. 

"  I  do  not  say,"  said  Aram,  after  a  pause,  "  that  we  are  not  able 
to  make  the  happiness  of  those  immediately  around  us.  I  speak 
only  of  what  we  can  effect  for  the  mass.  And  it  is  a  deadening 
thought  to  mental  ambition,  that  the  circle  of  happiness  we  can 
create  is  formed  more  by  our  moral  than  our  mental  qualities. 
A  warm  heart,  though  accompanied  but  by  a  mediocre  under- 
standing, is  even  more  likely  to  promote  the  happiness  of  those 
around,  than  are  the  absorbed  and  abstract,  though  kindly, 


72  EUGENE      ARAM. 

powers  of  a  more  elevated  genius  ;  but  (observing  Lester  about 
to  interrupt  him)  let  us  turn  from  this  topic  ;  let  us  turn  from 
man's  weakness  to  the  glories  of  the  Mother-Nature,  from 
which  he  sprung." 

And  kindling,  as  he  ever  did,  the  moment  he  approached  a 
subject  so  dear  to  his  studies,  Aram  now  spoke  of  the  stars, 
which  began  to  sparkle  forth  ;  of  the  vast,  illimitable  career 
which  recent  science  had  opened  to  the  imagination  ;  and  of 
the  old,  bewildering,  yet  eloquent  theories,  which  from  age  to 
age  had  at  once  misled  and  elevated  the  conjecture  of  past 
sages.  All  this  was  a  theme  to  which  his  listeners  loved  to 
listen,  and  Madeline  not  the  least.  Youth,  beauty,  pomp,  what 
are  these  in  point  of  attraction,  to  a  woman's  heart,  when  com- 
pared to  eloquence  ?  The  magic  of  the  tongue  is  the  most 
dangerous  of  all  spells  ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  GENIUS. — LESTER'S  SATISFACTION  AT  THE 
ASPECT  OF  EVENTS. — HIS  CONVERSATION  WITH  WALTER. —  A 
DISCOVERY. 

"Ale.  I  am  for  Lidian  : 

This  accident,  no  doubt,  will  draw  him  from  his  hermit's  life  !" 
******** 

"  Lis.  Spare  my  grief,  and  apprehend 
What  I  should  speak."— BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER  :  The  Lover's  Progress. 

IN  the  course  of  the  various  conversations  our  family  of 
Grassrlale  enjoyed  with  their  singular  neighbor,  it  appeared  that 
his  knowledge  had  not  been  confined  to  the  closet  ;  at  times  he 
dropped  remarks  which  showed  that  he  had  been  much  among 
cities,  and  travelled  with  the  design,  or  at  least  with  the  vigilance, 
of  the  observer ;  but  he  did  not  love  to  be  drawn  into  any  de- 
tailed accounts  of  what  he  had  seen,  or  whither  he  had  been  : 
an  habitual,  though  a  gentle,  reserve,  kept  watch  over  the  past — 
not,  indeed,  that  character  of  reserve  which  excites  the  doubt, 
but  which  inspires  the  interest.  His  most  gloomy  moods  were 
rather  abrupt  and  fitful  than  morose,  and  his  usual  bearing  was 
calm,  soft,  and  even  tender. 

There  is  a  certain  charm  about  great  superiority  of  intellect 
that  winds  into  deep  affections,  which  a  much  more  constant 


EttGENE     ARAM.  73 

and  even  amiability  of  manners  in  lesser  men  often  fails  to 
reach.  Genius  makes  many  enemies,  but  it  makes  sure  friends — 
friends  who  forgive  much,  who  endure  long,  who  exact  little  : 
they  partake  of  the  character  of  disciples  as  well  as  friends. 
There  lingers  about  the  human  heart  a  strong  inclination  to 
look  upward — to  revere  ;  in  this  inclination  lies  the  source  of 
religion,  of  loyalty,  and  also  of  the  worship  and  immortality 
which  are  rendered  so  cheerfully  to  the  great  of  old.  And,  in 
truth,  it  is  a  divine  pleasure  !  admiration  seems  in  some  meas- 
ure to  appropriate  to  ourselves  the  qualities  it  honors  in  others. 
We  wed — we  root  ourselves  to  the  natures  we  so  love  to  con- 
template, and  their  life  grows  a  part  of  our  own.  Thus  when 
a  great  man,  who  has  engrossed  our  thoughts,  our  conjectures, 
our  homage,  dies,  a  gap  seems  suddenly  left  in  the  world  ;  a 
wheel  in  the  mechanism  of  our  own  being  appears  abruptly 
stilled  ;  a  portion  of  ourselves,  and  not  our  worst  portion — for 
how  many  pure,  high,  generous  sentiments  it  contains — dies 
with  him  !  Yes  !  it  is  this  love,  so  rare,  so  exalted,  and  so  de- 
nied to  all  ordinary  men,  which  is  the  especial  privilege  of 
greatness,  whether  that  greatness  be  shown  in  wisdom,  in  en- 
terprise, in  virtue,  or  even,  till  the  world  learns  better,  in  the 
more  daring  and  lofty  order  of  crime.  A  Socrates  may  claim 
it  to-day — a  Napoleon  to-morrow  ;  nay,  a  brigand  chief,  illus- 
trious in  the  circle  in  which  he  lives,  may  call  it  forth  no  less 
powerfully  than  the  generous  failings  of  a  Byron,  or  the  sub- 
lime eloquence  of  the  greater  Milton. 

Lester  saw  with  evident  complacency  the  passion  growing 
up  between  his  friend  and  his  daughter  ;  he  looked  upon  it  as 
a  tie  that  would  permanently  reconcile  Aram  to  the  hearth  of 
social  and  domestic  life ;  a  tie  that  would  constitute  the  hap- 
piness of  his  daughter,  and  secure  to  himself  a  relation  in  the 
man  he  felt  most  inclined,  of  all  he  knew,  to  honor  and  esteem. 
He  remarked  in  the  gentleness  and  calm  temper  of  Aram  much 
that  was  calculated  to  ensure  domestic  peace  ;  and,  knowing 
the  peculiar  disposition  of  Madeline,  he  felt  that  she  was  exactly 
the  person,  not  only  to  bear  with  the  peculiarities  of  the  stu- 
dent, but  to  venerate  their  source.  In  short,  the  more  he  con- 
templated the  idea  of  this  alliance,  the  more  he  was  charmed 
with  its  probability. 

Musing  on  this  subject,  the  good  squire  was  one  day  walking 
in  his  garden,  when  he  perceived  his  nephew  at  some  distance, 
and  remarked  that  Walter,  on  seeing  him,  instead  of  coming 
forward  to  meet  him,  was  about  to  turn  down  an  alley  in  an 
opposite  direction. 


74  EUGENE     ARAM. 

A  little  pained  at  this,  and  remembering  that  Walter  uad  of 
late  seemed  estranged  from  himself,  and  greatly  altered  from  the 
high  and  cheerful  spirits  natural  to  his  temper,  Lester  called 
to  his  nephew  ;  and  Walter,  reluctantly  and  slowly  changing 
his  purpose  of  avoidance,  advanced  and  met  him. 

"  Why>  Walter  !"  said  the  uncle,  taking  his  arm,  "  this  is 
somewhat  unkind  to  shun  me  ;  are  you  engaged  in  any  pur- 
suit that  requires  secrecy  or  haste  ?" 

"  No,  indeed,  sir  !  "  said  Walter,  with  some  embarrassment ; 
"  but  I  thought  you  seemed  wrapped  in  reflection,  and  would 
naturally  dislike  being  disturbed." 

"  Hem  !  As  to  that,  I  have  no  reflections  I  wish  concealed 
from  you,  Walter,  or  which  might  not  be  benefited  by  your 
advice."  The  youth  pressed  his  uncle's  hand,  but  made  no 
reply  ;  and  Lester,  after  a  pause,  continued  : 

"  I  am  delighted  to  think,  Walter,  that  you  seem  entirely  to 
have  overcome  the  unfavorable  prepossession  which  at  first 
you  testified  towards  our  excellent  neighbor.  And,  for  my 
part,  I  think  he  appears  to  be  especially  attracted  towards 
yourself  ;  he  seeks  your  company  ;  and  to  me  he  always  speaks 
of  you  in  terms  which,  coming  from  such  a  quarter,  give  me 
the  most  lively  gratification." 

Walter  bowed  his  head,  but  not  in  the  delighted  vanity  with 
which  a  young  man  generally  receives  the  assurance  of 
another's  praise. 

"  I  own,"  renewed  Lester,  "  that  I  consider  our  friendship 
with  Aram  one  of  the  most  fortunate  occurrences  in  my  life  ; 
at  least,"  added  he,  with  a  sigh,  "  of  late  years.  I  doubt  not 
but  you  must  have  observed  the  partiality  with  which  our  dear 
Madeline  evidently  regards  him  ;  and  yet  more,  the  attach- 
ment to  her,  which  breaks  forth  from  Aram,  in  spite  of  his  ha- 
bitual reserve  and  self-control.  You  have  surely  noticed  this 
Walter  ?  " 

"  I  have,"  said  Walter,  in  a  low  tone,  and  turning  away  his 
head. 

"  And  doubtless  you  share  my  satisfaction.  It  happens  for- 
tunately now,  that  Madeline  early  contracted  that  studious  and 
thoughtful  turn,  which,  I  must  own,  at  one  time  gave  me  some 
uneasiness  and  vexation.  It  has  taught  her  to  appreciate  the 
value  of  a  mind  like  Aram's.  Formerly,  my  dear  boy,  I  hoped 
that  at  one  time  or  another  she  and  yourself  might  form  a 
dearer  connection  than  that  of  cousins.  But  I  was  disap- 
pointed, and  I  am  now  consoled.  And  indeed  I  think  there 
is  that  in  Ellinor  which  might  be  yet  more  calculated  to  render 


fcUGENE     ARAM.  75 

you  happy  ;  that  is,  if  the  bias  of  your  mind  should   ever  lean 
that  way." 

"  You  are  very  good,"  said  Walter  bitterly.  "  I  own  I  am 
not  flattered  by  your  selection  ;  nor  do  I  see  why  the 
plainer  and  less  brilliant  of  the  two  sisters  must  necessarily  be 
the  fitter  for  me." 

"  Nay,"  replied  Lester,  piqued,  and  justly  angry  ;  "  I  do  not 
think,  even  if  Madeline  have  the  advantage  of  her  sister,  that 
you  can  find  any  fault  with  the  personal  or  mental  attractions 
of  Ellinor.  But,  indeed,  this  is  not  a  matter  in  which  relations 
should  interfere.  I  am  far  from  any  wish  to  prevent  you  from 
choosing  throughout  the  world  any  one  whom  you  may  prefer. 
All  I  hope  is,  that  your  future  wife  will  be  like  Ellinor  in  kind- 
ness of  heart  and  sweetness  of  temper." 

"From  choosing  throughout  the  world  !  "  repeated  Walter  : 
"  and  how  in  this  nook  am  I  to  see  the  world  ? " 

"  Walter,  your  voice  is  reproachful.     Do  I  deserve  it  ?  " 

Walter  was  silent. 

"  I  have  of  late  observed,"  continued  Lester,  "  and  with 
wounded  feelings,  that  you  do  not  give  me  the  same  confidence, 
or  meet  me  with  the  same  affection,  that  you  once  delighted 
me  by  manifesting  towards  me.  I  know  of  no  cause  for  this 
change.  Do  not  let  us,  my  son,  for  I  may  so  call  you — do  not 
let  us,  as  we  grow 'older,  grow  also  more  apart.  Time  divides 
with  a  sufficient  demarcation,  the  young  from  the  old  ;  why 
deepen  the  necessary  line  ?  You  know  well,  that  I  have  never 
from  childhood  insisted  heavily  upon  a  guardian's  authority. 
I  have  always  loved  to  contribute  to  your  enjoyments,  and 
shown  you  how  devoted  I  am  to  your  interests,  by  the  very  frank- 
ness with  which  I  have  consulted  you  on  my  own.  If  there  be 
now  on  your  mind  any  secret  grievance,  or  any  secret  wish, 
speak  it,  Walter, — you  are  alone  with  the  friend  on  earth 
who  loves  you  best !  " 

Walter  was  wholly  overcome  by  this  address  ;  he  pressed  his 
good  uncle's  hand  to  his  lips,  and  it  was  some  moments  before 
he  mustered  self-composure  sufficient  to  reply. 

"  You  have  ever,  ever  been  to  me  all  that  the  kindest  parent, 
the  tenderest  friend  could  have  been  ;  believe  me,  I  am  not 
ungrateful.  If  of  late  I  have  been  altered,  the  cause  is  not  iu 
you.  Let  me  speak  freely  ;  you  encourage  me  to  do  so.  I  am 
young,  my  temper  is  restless  ;  I  have  a  love  of  enterprise  and 
adventure  ;  is  it  not  natural  that  I  should  long  to  see  the 
world  ?  This  is  the  cause  of  my  late  abstraction  of  mind.  I 
have  now  told  you  all ;  it  is  for  you  to  decide." 


y<3  EUGENE     ARAM. 

Lester  looked  wistfully  on  his  nephew's  countenance  before 
he  replied : 

"  It  is  as  I  gathered,"  said  he,  "from  various  remarks  which 
you  have  lately  let  fall.  I  cannot  blame  your  wish  to  leave  us  ; 
it  is  certainly  natural  ;  nor  can  I  oppose  it.  Go,  Walter,  when 
you  will." 

The  young  man  turned  round  with  a  lighted  eye  and  flushed 
cheek. 

"  And  why,  Walter,"  said  Lester,  interrupting  his  thanks, 
"  why  this  surprise  ?  why  this  long  doubt  of  my  affection  ? 
Could  you  believe  I  should  refuse  a  wish  that,  at  your  age,  I 
should  have  expressed  myself  ?  You  have  wronged  me  ;  you 
might  have  saved  a  world  of  pain  to  us  both  by  acquainting  me 
with  your  desire  when  it  was  first  formed  ;  but,  enough.  I  see 
Madeline  and  Aram  approach, — let  us  join  them  now,  and  to-, 
morrow  we  will  arrange  the  time  and  method  of  your  depar- 
ture." 

"Forgive  me,  sir,"  said  Walter,  stopping  abruptly  as  the  glow 
faded  from  his  cheek,  "  I  have  not  yet  recovered  myself ;  I  am 
not  fit  for  other  society  than  yours.  Excuse  my  joining  my 
cousin,  and — ' 

"  Walter!  "  said  Lester,  also  stopping  short,  and  looking  full 
on  his  nephew  ;  "  a  painful  thought  flashes  upon  me  !  Would 
to  Heaven  I  may  be  wrong  !  Have  you  ever  felt  for  Madeline 
more  tenderly  than  for  her  sister  ?  " 

Walter  literally  trembled  as  he  stood.  The  tears  rushed  into 
Lester's  eyes  :  he  grasped  his  nephew's  hand  warmly, — 

"  God  comfort  thee,  my  poor  boy  !  "  said  he,  with  great  emo- 
tion ;  "  I  never  dreamed  of  this." 

Walter  felt  now  that  he  was  understood.  He  gratefully  re- 
turned the  pressure  of  his  uncle's  hand,  and  then,  withdrawing 
his  own,  darted  down  one  of  the  intersecting  walks,  and  was 
almost  instantly  out  of  sight. 


EUGENE     ARAM. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   STATE   OF   WALTER'S   MIND. — AN    ANGLER   AND    A  MAN  OF 
THE   WORLD. — A    COMPANION    FOUND    FOR    WALTER. 

"  This  great  disease  for  love  I  dre,  * 

There  is  no  tongue  can  tell  the  wo  ; 
I  love  the  love  that  loves  not  me, 
I  may  not  mend,  but  mourning  mo." 

—  The  Mourning  Maiden. 

"  I  in  these  flowery  meads  would  be, 
These  crystal  streams  should  solace  me, 
To  whose  harmonious  bubbling  voice 
I  with  nay  angle  would  rejoice." — IzAAK  WALTON. 

WHEN  Walter  left  his  uncle,  he  hurried,  scarcely  conscious 
of  his  steps,  towards  his  favorite  haunt  by  the  water-side. 
From  a  child,  he  had  singled  out  that  scene  as  the  witness  of 
his  early  sorrows  or  boyish  schemes  ;  and  still,  the  solitude  of 
the  place  cherished  the  habits  of  his  boyhood. 

Long  had  he,  unknown  to  himself,  nourished  an  attachment 
to  his  beautiful  cousin  ;  nor  did  he  awaken  to  the  secret  of  his 
heart,  until,  with  an  agonizing  jealousy,  he  penetrated  the 
secret  at  her  own.  The  reader  has,  doubtless,  already  per- 
ceived that  it  was  this  jealousy  which  at  the  first  occasioned 
Walter's  dislike  to  Aram  :  the  consolation  of  that  dislike  was 
forbid  him  now.  The  gentleness  and  forbearance  of  the 
student's  deportment  had  taken  away  all  ground  of  offence; 
and  Walter  had  sufficient  generosity  to  acknowledge  his  merits, 
while  tortured  by  their  effect.  Silently,  till  this  day,  he  had 
gnawed  his  heart,  and  found  for  its  despair  no  confidant  and 
no  comfort.  The  only  wish  that  he  cherished  was  a  feverish 
and  gloomy  desire  to  leave  the  scene  which  witnessed  the  tri- 
umph of  his  rival.  Everything  around  had  become  hateful  to 
his  eyes,  and  a  curse  had  lighted  upon  the  face  of  home.  He 
thought  now,  with  a  bitter  satisfaction,  that  his  escape  was  at 
hand  ;  in  a  few  days  he  might  be  rid  of  the  gall  and  the  pang, 
which  every  moment  of  his  stay  at  Grassdale  inflicted  upon 
him.  The  sweet  voice  of  Madeline  he  should  hear  no  more, 
subduing  its  silver  sound  for  his  rival's  ear  :  no  more  he  should 
watch  apart,  and  himself  unheeded,  how  timidly  her  glance 
roved  in  search  of  another,  or  how  vividly  her  cheek  flushed 
when  the  step  of  that  happier  one  approached.  Many  miles 

*Bear. 


78  EUGENE     ARAM. 

would  at  least  shut  out  this  picture  from  his  view  ;  and  in  ab- 
sence, was  it  not  possible  that  he  might  teach  himself  to  forget  ? 
Thus  meditating,  he  arrived  at  the  banks  of  the  little  brooklet, 
and  was  awakened  from  his  revery  by  the  sound  of  his  own 
name.  He  started,  and  saw  the  old  corporal  seated  on  the  stump 
of  a  tree,  and  busily  employed  in  fixing  to  his  line  the  mimic 
likeness  of  what  anglers,  and,  for  aught  we  know,  the  rest  o* 
the  world,  call  the  "violet-fly." 

"  Ha  !  master, — at  my  day's  work,  you  see  ;  fit  for  nothing 
else  no\v.  When  a  musket's  half  worn  out,  schoolboys  buy 
it — pop  it  at  sparrows.  I  be  like  the  musket !  but  never  mind — 
have  not  seen  the  world  for  nothing.  We  get  reconciled  to  all 
things  :  that's  my  way — augh  !  Now,  sir,  you  shall  watch  me 
catch  the  finest  trout  you  have  seen  this  summer:  know  where 
he  lies — under  the  bush  yonder.  Whi— sh  !  sir,  whi-sh  !" 

The  corporal  now  gave  his  warrior  soul  up  to  the  due  guid- 
ance of  the  violet-fly  :  now  he  whipped  it  lightly  on  the  wave  ; 
now  he  slid  it  coquettishly  along  the  surface  ;  now  it  floated, 
lake  an  unconscious  beauty,  carelessly  with  the  tide  ;  and  now, 
like  an  artful  prude,  it  affected  to  loiter  by  the  way,  or  to  steal 
into  designing  obscurity  under  the  shade  of  some  overhanging 
bank.  But  none  of  these  manoeuvres  captivated  the  wary  old 
trout,  on  whose  acquisition  the  corporal  had  set  his  heart  ;  and, 
what  was  especially  provoking,  the  angler  could  see  distinctly 
the  dark  outline  of  the  intended  victim,  as  it  lay  at  the  bot- 
tom,— like  some  well-regulated  bachelor,  who  eyes  from  afar 
the  charms  he  has  discreetly  resolved  to  neglect. 

The  corporal  waited  till  he  could  no  longer  blind  himself  to 
the  displeasing  fact  that  the  violet-fly  was  wholly  ineffiacious  ; 
he  then  drew  up  his  line,  and  replaced  the  contemned  beauty 
of  the  violet-fly  with  the  novel  attractions  of  the  yellow-dun. 

"  Now,  sir,"  whispered  he,  lifting  up  his  finger,  and  nodding 
sagaciously  to  Walter.  Softly  dropped  the  yellow-dun  on  the 
water,  and  swiftly  did  it  glide  before  the  gaze  of  the  latent 
trout  :  and  now  the  trout  seemed  aroused  from  his  apathy,  be- 
hold he  rnoved  forward,  balancing  himself  upon  his  fins  ;  now 
he  slowly  ascended  towards  the  surface  :  you  might  see  all  the 
speckles  of  his  coat :  the  corporal's  heart  stood  still — he  is 
now  at  a  convenient  distance  from  the  yellow-dun  ;  lo,  he  sur- 
veys it  steadfastly  ;  he  ponders,  he  see-saws  himself  to  and  fro. 
The  yellow-dun  sails  away  in  affected  indifference;  that  indif- 
ference whets  the  appetite  of  the  hesitating  gazer  ;  he  darts 
forward  ;  he  is  opposite  the  yellow-dun, — he  pushes  his  nose 
against  it  with  an  eager  rudeness, — he — no,  he  does  «0/bite,  he 


EUGENE     ARAM.  79 

recoils,,  he  gazes  again  with  surprise  and  suspicion  on  the  little 
charmer ;  he  fades  back  slowly  into  the  deeper  water,  and 
then,  suddenly  turning  his  tail  towards  the  disappointed  bait, 
he  makes  off  as  fast  as  he  can, — yonder, — yonder,  and  disap- 
pears !  No,  that's  he  leaping  yonder  from  the  wave  :  Jupiter  ! 
what  a  noble  fellow  !  What  leaps  he  at  ? — A  real  fly  !  "  D — n 
his  eyes  !  "  growled  the  corporal. 

"  You  might  have  caught  him  with  a  minnow,"  said  Walter, 
speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"Minnow  !"  repeated  the  corporal  gruffly  ;  "ask  your  hon- 
or's pardon.  Minnow  !  I  have  fished  with  the  yellow-dun 
these  twenty  years,  and  never  knew  it  fail  before.  Minnow! 
baugh  !  But  ask  pardon  ;  your  honor  is  very  welcome  to  fish 
with  a  minnow,  if  you  please  it." 

"  Thank  you,  Bunting.  And  pray  what  sport  have  you  had 
to-day  ? " 

"  Oh, — good,  good,"  quoth  the  corporal,  snatching  up  his 
basket  and  closing  the  cover,  lest  the  young  squire  should  pry 
into  it.  No  man  is  more  tenacious  of  his  secrets  than  your 
true  angler.  "  Sent  the  best  home  two  hours  ago  ;  one  weighed 
three  pounds  on  the  faith  of  a  man  ;  indeed,  I'm  satisfied  now  ; 
time  to  give  up  ":  and  the  corporal  began  to  disjoint  the  rod. 

"  Ah,  sir  !  "  said  he,  with  a  half  sigh,  "  a  pretty  river  this  ; 
don't  mean  to  say  it  is  not ;  but  the  river  Lea  for  my  money. 
You  know  the  Lea  ?  not  a  morning's  walk  from  Lunnun. 
Mary  Gibson,  my  first  sweetheart,  lived  by  the  bridge,— caught 
such  a  trout  there  by  the  by  ;  had  beautiful  eyes — black,  round 
as  a  cherry — five  feet  eight  without  shoes — might  have  listed 
in  the  Forty-second." 

"Who,  Bunting?"  said  Walter,  smiling ;  "the  lady  or  the 
trout  ?" 

"  Augh  !  baugh  !  what?  Oh,  laughing  at  me,  your  honor; 
you're  welcome,  sir.  Love's  a  silly  thing — know  the  world 
now — have  not  fallen  in  love  these  ten  years.  I  doubt — no 
offence,  sir,  no'offence — I  doubt  whether  your  honor  and  Miss 
Ellinor  can  say  as  much," 

"  I  and  Miss  Ellinor  !  You  forget  yourself  strangely,  Bunt- 
ing," said  Walter,  coloring  with  anger. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  beg  pardon— rough  soldier — lived  away 
from  the  world  so  long,  words  slipped  out  of  my  mouth — ab- 
sent without  leave." 

"  But  why,"  said  Walter,  smothering  or  conquering  his  vexa- 
tion,— "  why  couple  me  with  Miss  Ellinor  ?  Did  you  imagine 
that  we — we  were  in  love  with  each  other  ?  " 


§0  EUGENE     AfeAM. 

44  Indeed,  sir,  and  if  I  did,  'tis  no  more  than  my  neighbors 
imagine  too." 

"  Humph  !  Your  neighbors  are  very  silly,  then,  and  very 
wrong." 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  again — always  getting  askew.  Indeed 
some  did  say  it  was  Miss  Madeline,  but  I  says, — says  I, — '  No  ! 
I'm  a  man  of  the  world — see  through  a  millstone  ;  Miss  Made- 
line's too  easy  like  ;  Miss  Nelly  blushes  when  he  speaks  ;  scar- 
let is  Love's  regimentals — it  was  ours  in  the  Forty-second, 
edged  with  yellow — pepper-and-salt  pantaloons  !  For  my  part 
I  think — but  I've  no  business  to  think,  howsomever — baugh  !  " 

"  Pray,  what  do  you  think,  Mr.  Bunting  ?  Why  do  you 
hesitate  ?" 

44  'Fraid  of  offence— but  I  do  think  that  Master  Aram — your 
honor  understands — howsomever  squire's  daughter  too  great  a 
match  for  such  as  he  !  " 

Walter  did  not  answer  ;  and  the  garrulous  old  soldier,  who 
had  been  the  young  man's  playmate  and  companion  since 
Walter  was  a  boy,  and  was  therefore  accustomed  to  the  famili- 
arity with  which  he  now  spoke,  continued,  mingling  with  his 
abrupt  prolixity  an  occasional  shrewdness  of  observation,  which 
showed  that  he  was  no  inattentive  commentator  on  the  little  and 
quiet  world  around  him  : 

41  Free  to  confess,  Squire  Walter,  that  I  don't  quite  like  this 
lamed  man,  as  much  as  the  rest  of  'm — something  queer  about 
him — can't  see  to  the  bottom  of  him — don't  think  he's  quite 
so  meek  and  lamblike  as  he  seems  :  once  saw  a  calm  dead 
pool  in  foren  parts — peered  down  into  it — by  little  and  little, 
my  eye  got  used  to  it — saw  something  dark  at  the  bottom — 
stared  and  stared — by  Jupiter — a  great  big  alligator  ! — walked 
off  immediately — never  liked  quiet  pools  since — augh,  no  ! " 

"An  argument  against  quiet  pools,  perhaps,  Bunting;  but 
scarcely  against  quiet  people." 

44  Don't  know  as  to  that,  your  honor — much  of  a  muchness. 
I  have  seen  Master  Aram,  demure  as  he  looks,  start,  and  bite 
his  lip,  and  change  color,  and  frown — he  has  an  ugly  frown,  I 
can  tell  ye, — when  he  thought  no  one  nigh.  A  man  who  gets 
in  a  passion  with  himself  may  be  soon  out  of  temper  with 
others.  Free  to  confess,  I  should  not  like  to  see  him  married 
to  that  stately,  beautiful,  young  lady — but  they  do  gossip  about 
it  in  the  village.  If  it  is  not  true,  better  put  the  squire  on  his 
guard — false  rumors  often  beget  truths — beg  pardon,  your 
honor — no  business  of  mine — baugh  !  But  I'm  a  lone  man 
who  have  seen  the  world,  and  I  thinks  on  the  things  around  me, 


EUGENE     ARAM.  8l 

and  I  turns  over  the  quid — now  on  this  side,  now  on  the 
other — 'tis  my  way,  sir — and — but  I  offend  your  honor." 

"Not  at  all  ;  I  know  you  are  an  honest  man,  Bunting,  and 
well  affected  to  our  family  :  at  the  same  time  it  is  neither  pru- 
dent nor  charitable  to  speak  harshly  of  our  neighbors  without 
sufficient  cause.  And  really  you  seem  to  me  to  be  a  little  hasty  in 
your  judgment  of  a  man  so  inoffensive  in  his  habits,  and  so 
justly  and  generally  esteemed,  as  Mr.  Aram." 

"  May  be,  sir — may  be, — very  right  what  you  say.  But  I 
thinks  what  I  thinks  all  the  same  ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  a  thing 
that  puzzles  me,  how  that  strange-looking  vagabond,  as  frighted 
the  ladies  so,  and  who,  Miss  Nelly  told  me — for  she  saw 
them  in  his  pocket — carried  pistols  about  him,  as  if  he  had  been 
among  cannibals  and  Hottentots,  instead  of  the  peaceablest 
country  that  man  ever  set  foot  in,  should  boast  of  his  friend- 
ship with  this  larned  schollard,  and  pass  I  dare  swear  a  whole 
night  in  his  house  !  Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together — augh  ! — 
sir  !  " 

"  A  man  cannot  surely  be  answerable  for  the  respectability 
of  all  his  acquaintances,  even  though  he  feel  obliged  to  offer 
them  the  accommodation  of  a  night's  shelter." 

"  Baugh  !  "  grunted  the  corporal.  "Seen  the  world  ;  seen 
the  world — young  gentleman  are  always  so  good-natured  ;  'tis 
a  pity,  that  the  more  one  sees  the  more  suspicious  one  grows. 
One  does  not  have  gumption  till  one  has  been  properly  cheat- 
ed— one  must  be  made  a  fool  very  often  in  order  not  to  be 
fooled  at  last !  " 

"  Well,  corporal,  I  shall  now  have  opportunities  enough  of 
profiting  by  experience.  I  am  going  to  leave  Grassdale  in  a 
few  days,  and  learn  suspicion  and  wisdom  in  the  great  world." 

"Augh  !  baugh  ! — what  !  "  cried  the  corporal,  starting  from 
the  contemplative  air  which  he  had  hitherto  assumed.  "  The 
great  world? — how? — when? — going  away? — who  goes  with 
your  honor  ? 

"My  honor's  self:  I  have  no  companion,  unless  you  like  to 
attend  me,"  said  Walter  jestingly :  but  the  corporal  affected, 
with  his  natural  shrewdness,  to  take  the  proposition  in  earnest. 

"  I  !  your  honor's  too  good  ;  and  indeed,  though  I  say  it, 
sir,  you  might  do  worse  :  not  but  what  I  should  be  sorry  to 
leave  nice  snug  home  here,  and  this  stream,  though  the  trout 
have  been  shy  lately, — ah  !  that  was  a  mistake  of  yours,  sir, 
recommending  the  minnow  ;  and  neighbor  Dealtry,  though  his 
ale's  not  so  good  as  'twas  last  year  ;  and — and — but,  in  short, 
I  always  loved  your  honor — dandled  you  on  my  knees  ;  you 


82  EUGENE      ARAM. 

recollect  the  broadsword  exercise  ?  one,  two,  three — augh  ! 
baugh  ! — and  if  your  honor  really  is  going,  why,  rather  than 
you  should  want  a  proper  person,  who  knows  the  world,  to 
brush  your  coat,  polish  your  shoes,  give  you  good  advice — on 
the  faith  of  a  man,  I'll  go  with  you  myself  !  " 

This  alacrity  on  the  part  of  the  corporal  was  far  from  dis- 
pleasing to  Walter.  The  proposal  he  had  at  first  made  unthink- 
ingly, he  now  seriously  thought  advisable  ;  and  at  length  it 
was  settled  that  the  corporal  should  call  the  next  morning  at 
the  manor-house,  and  receive  instructions  to  conclude  arrange- 
ments for  the  journey.  Not  forgetting,  as  the  sagacious  Bunt- 
ling  delicately  insinuated,  "  the  wee  settlements  as  to  Avages, 
and  board-wages,  more  a  matter  of  form,  like,  than  anything 
else — augh  ! " 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   LOVERS. — THE  ENCOUNTER  AND  QUARREL  OF  THE  RIVALS. 

"  Two  sueh  I  saw,  what  time  the  labor 'd  ox 
In  his  loose  traces  from  the  furrow  came." — Cotnus. 

"  Pedro.  Now  do  me  noble  right. 

Rod.  I'll  satisfy  you  ; 
But  not  by  the  sword." — BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER:   The  Pilgrim. 

WHILE  Walter  and  the  corporal  enjoyed  the  above  conversa- 
tion, Madeline  and  Aram,  whom  Lester  left  to  themselves,  were 
pursuing  their  walk  along  the  solitary  fields.  Their  love  had 
passed  from  the  eye  to  the  lip,  and  now  found  expression  in 
words. 

"  Observe,"  said  he,  as  the  light  touch  of  one,  who  he  felt 
loved  him  entirely,  rested  on  his  arm, — "Observe,  as  the  later 
summer  now  begins  to  breathe  a  more  various  and  mellow  glory 
into  the  landscape,  how  singularly  pure  and  lucid  the  atmos- 
phere becomes.  When,  two  months  ago,  in  the  full  flush  of 
June,  I  walked  through  these  fields,  a  gray  mist  hid  yon  distant 
hills  and  the  far  forest  from  my  view.  Now,  with  what  a 
transparent  stillness  the  whole  expanse  of  scenery  spreads  itself 
before  us.  And  such,  Madeline,  is  the  change  that  has  come 
over  myself  since  that  time.  Then  if  I  looked  beyond  the 
limited  present,  all  was  dim  and  indistinct.  Now,  the  mist  has 
faded  away — the  broad  future  extends  before  me,  calm  and 
bright  with  the  hope  which  is  borrowed  from  your  love  \ 


EUGENE     ARAM.  83 

We  will  not  tax  the  patience  of  the  reader,  who  seldom  enters 
with  keen  interest  into  the  mere  dialogue  of  love,  with  the 
blushing  Madeline's  reply,  or  with  all  the  soft  vows  and  tender 
confessions  which  the  rich  poetry  of  Aram's  mind  made  yet 
more  delicious  to  the  ear  of  his  dreaming  and  devoted  mistress. 

"There  is  one  circumstance,"  said  Aram,  "  which  casts  a 
momentary  shade  on  the  happiness  I  enjoy — my  Madeline  prob- 
ably guesses  its  nature.  I  regret  to  see  that  the  blessing  of 
your  love  must  be  purchased  by  the  misery  of  another,  and  that 
other,  the  nephew  of  my  kind  friend.  You  have  doubtless  ob- 
served the  melancholy  of  Walter  Lester,  and  have  long  since 
known  its  origin?" 

"  Indeed,  Eugene,"  answered  Madeline,  "it  has  given  me 
great  pain  to  note  what  you  refer  to,  for  it  would  be  a  false 
delicacy  in  me  to  deny  that  I  have  observed  it.  But  Walter  is 
young  and  high-spirited  ;  nor  do  I  think  he  is  of  a  nature  to 
love  long  where  there  is  no  return  !  " 

"  And  what,"  said  Aram  sorrowfully, — "  what  deduction  from 
reason  can  ever  apply  to  love  ?  Love  is  a  very  contradiction 
of  all  the  elements  of  our  ordinary  nature  ;  it  makes  the  proud 
man  meek, — the  cheerful,  sad, — the  high-spirited,  tame  ;  our 
strongest  resolutions,  our  hardiest  energy,  fail  before  it.  Be- 
lieve me,  you  cannot  prophesy  of  its  future  effect  in.  a  man 
from  any  knowledge  of  his  past  character.  I  grieve  to  think 
that  the  blow  falls  upon  one  in  early  youth,  ere  the  world's 
disappointments  have  blunted  the  heart,  or  the  world's  numer- 
ous interests  have  multiplied  its  resources.  Men's  minds  have 
been  turned  when  they  have  not  well  sifted  the  cause  them- 
selves, and  their  fortunes  marred,  by  one  stroke  on  the  affec- 
tions of  their  youth.  So  at  least  have  I  read,  Madeline,  and 
so  marked  in  others.  For  myself,  I  knew  nothing  of  love  in 
reality  till  I  knew  you.  But  who  can  know  you,  and  not  sym- 
pathize with  him  who  has  lost  you  ?" 

"Ah,  Eugene  !  you  at  least  overrate  the  influence  which  love 
produces  on  men.  A  little  resentment  and  a  little  absence  will 
soon  cure  my  cousin  of  an  ill-placed  and  ill-requited  attach- 
ment. You  do  not  think  how  easy  it  is  to  forget." 

"  Forget ! "  said  Aram,  stopping  abruptly  ;  "  ay,  forget — it  is 
a  strange  truth  !  we  do  forget  !  The  summer  passes  over  the 
furrow,  and  the  corn  springs  up  ;  the  sod  forgets  the  flower  of 
the  past  year  ;  the  battle-field  forgets  the  blood  that  has  been 
spilt  upon  its  turf  ;  the  sky  forgets  the  storm  ;  and  the  water 
the  noon-day  sun  that  slept  upon  its  bosom.  All  Nature 
preaches  forgetfulness.  Its  very  order  is  the  progress  of  ob- 


84  EUGENE      ARAM. 

livion.     And  I — I — give  me  your  hand,  Madeline, — I,  ha  !  ha! 
I  forget  too  !  " 

As  Aram  spoke  thus  vvildly,  his  countenance  worked  ;  but 
his  voice  was  slow,  and  scarcely  audible  :  he  Deemed  rather 
conferring  with  himself,  than  addressing  Madeline.  But  when 
his  words  ceased,  and  he  felt  the  soft  hand  of  his  betrothed, 
and,  turning,  saw  her  anxious  and  wistful  eyes  fixed  in  alarm, 
yet  in  all  unsuspecting  confidence,  on  his  face ;  his  features 
relaxed  into  their  usual  serenity,  and  kissing  the  hand  he 
clasped,  he  continued,  in  a  collected  and  steady  tone : 

"  Forgive  me,  my  sweetest  Madeline.  These  fitful  and  strange 
moods  sometimes  come  upon  me  yet.  I  have  been  so  long  in 
the  habit  of  pursuing  any  train  of  thought,  however  wild,  that 
presents  itself  to  my  mind,  that  I  cannot  easily  break  it,  even 
in  your  presence.  All  studious  men — the  twilight  eremites  of 
books  and  closets,  contract  this  ungraceful  custom  of  soliloquy. 
You  know  our  abstraction  is  a  common  jest  and  proverb  :  you 
must  laugh  me  out  of  it.  But  stay,  dearest ! — there  is  a  rare 
herb  at  your  feet,  let  me  gather  it.  So,  do  you  note  its  leaves — 
this  bending  and  silver  flower  ?  Let  us  rest  on  this  bank,  and 
I  will  tell  you  of  its  qualities.  Beautiful  as  it  is,  it  has  a 
poison." 

The  place  in  which  the  lover  rested  is  one  which  the  villagers 
to  this  day  call  "The  Lady's  Seat";  for  Madeline,  whose 
history  is  fondly  preserved  in  that  district,  was  afterwards  wont 
constantly  to  repair  to  that  bank  (during  a  short  absence  of 
her  lover,  hereafter  to  be  noted),  and  subsequent  events  stamped 
with  interest  every  spot  she  was  known  to  have  favored  with 
resort.  And  when  the  flower  had  been  duly  conned,  and  the 
study  dismissed,  Aram,  to  whom  all  the  signs  of  the  season 
were  familiar,  pointed  to  her  the  thousand  symptoms  of  the 
month  which  are  unheeded  by  less  observant  eyes  ;  not  forget- 
ting, as  they  thus  reclined,  their'  hands  clasped  together,  to 
couple  each  remark  with  some  allusion  to  his  love,  or  some 
deduction  which  heightened  compliment  into  poetry.  He  bade 
her  mark  the  light  gossamer  as  it  floated  on  the  air  ;  now  soar- 
ing high — high  into  the  translucent  atmosphere  ;  now  suddenly 
stooping,  and  sailing  away  beneath  the  boughs,  which  ever  and 
anon  it  hung  with  a  silken  web,  that  by  the  next  morn  would 
glitter  with  a  thousand  dew-drops.  "And  so,"  said  he,  fanci- 
fully, "does  love  lead  forth  its  numberless  creations,  making 
the  air  its  path  and  empire ;  ascending  aloof  at  its  wild  will, 
hanging  its  meshes  on  every  bough,  and  bidding  the  common 
grass  break  into  a  fairy  lustre  at  the  beam  of  the  daily  sun  ! " 


EUGENE     ARAM.  85 

He  pointed  to  her  the  spot,  where,  in  the  silent  brake,  the 
harebells,  now  waxing  rare  and  few,  yet  lingered — or  where  the 
mystic  ring  on  the  soft  turf  conjured  up  the  associations  of 
Oberon  and  his  train.  That  superstition  gave  license  and 
play  to  his  full  memory  and  glowing  fancy  ;  and  Shakspeare — 
Spenser — Ariosto — the  magic  of  each  mighty  master  of  Fairy 
Realm — he  evoked,  and  poured  into  her  transported  ear.  It 
was  precisely  such  arts,  which  to  a  gayer  and  more  worldly 
nature  than  Madeline's  might  have  seemed  but  wearisome,  that 
arrested  and  won  her  imaginative  and  high-wrought  mind. 
And  thus  he,  who  to  another  might  have  proved  but  the  retired 
and  moody  student,  became  to  her  the  very  being  of  whom  her 
"  maiden  meditation  "  had  dreamed — the  master  and  magician 
of  her  fate. 

Aram  did  not  return  to  the  house  with  Madeline  ;  he  accom- 
panied her  to  the  garden  gate,  and  then,  taking  leave  of  her, 
bent  his  way  homeward.  He  had  gained  the  entrance  of  the 
little  valley  that  led  to  his  abode,  when  he  saw  Walter  cross  his 
path  at  a  short  distance.  His  heart,  naturally  susceptible  to 
kindly  emotion,  smote  him  as  he  remarked  the  moody  listless- 
ness  of  the  young  man's  step,  and  recalled  the  buoyant  light- 
ness it  was  once  wont  habitually  to  wear.  He  quickened  his 
pace,  and  joined  Walter  before  the  latter  was  aware  of  his 
presence. 

"  Good-evening,"  said  he  mildly  ;  "  if  you  are  goingmy  way, 
give  me  the  benefit  of  your  company." 

"  My  path  lies  yonder,"  replied  Walter  somewhat  sullenly  ; 
"  I  regret  that  it  is  different  from  yours." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Aram,  "  I  can  delay  my  return  home, 
and  will,  with  your  leave,  intrude  my  society  upon  you  for  some 
few  minutes." 

Walter  bowed  his  head  in  reluctant  assent.  They  walked  on 
for  some  moments  without  speaking,  the  one  unwilling,  the 
other  seeking  an  occasion,  to  break  the  silence. 

"This  to  my  mind,"  said  Aram,  at  length,  "  is  the  most 
pleasing  landscape  in  the  whole  country  :  observe  the  bashful 
water  stealing  away  among  the  woodlands.  Methinks  the  wave 
is  endowed  with  an  instinctive  wisdom,  that  it  thus  shuns  the 
world." 

"  Rather,"  said  Walter,  "  with  the  love  for  change  which 
exists  everywhere  in  nature,  it  does  not  seek  the  shade  until  it 
has  passed  by  'towered  cities,'  and  the  '  busy  hum  of  men.'  " 

"1  admire  the  shrewdness  of  your  reply,"  rejoined  Aram  ; 
"  but  note  how  far  more  pure  and  lovely  are  its  waters  in  these 


86  EUGENE     ARAM. 

retreats,  than  when  washing  the  walls  of  the  reeking  town,  re- 
ceiving into  its  breast  the  taint  of  a  thousand  pollutions,  vexed 
by  the  sound,  and  stench,  and  unholy  perturbation  of  men's 
dwelling-place.  Now  it  glasses  only  what  is  high  or  beautiful 
in  nature — the  stars  or  the  leafy  banks.  The  wind  that  ruffles 
it  is  clothed  with  perfumes  ;  the  rivulet  that  swells  it  descends 
from  the  everlasting  mountains,  or  is  formed  by  the  rains  of 
Heaven.  Believe  me,  it  is  the  type  of  a  life  that  glides  into 
solitude,  from  the  weariness  and  fretful  turmoil  of  the  world. 

'  No  flattery,  hate,  or  envy  lodgeth  there. 

There  no  suspicion  walled  in  proved  steel, 
Yet  fearful  of  the  arms  herself  doth  wear  ; 

Pride  i;  not  there  ;  no  tyrant  there  we  feel  !  "  * 

"  I  will  not  cope  with  you  in  simile,  or  in  poetry,"  said 
Walter,  as  his  lip  curved  ;  "  it  is  enough  for  me  to  think  that 
life  should  be  spent  in  action.  I  hasten  to  prove  if  my  judg- 
ment be  erroneous." 

"  Are  you,  then,  about  to  leave  us  ? "  inquired  Aram. 

"  Yes,  within  a  few  days." 

"  Indeed  !  I  regret  to  hear  it." 

The  answer  sounded  jarringly  on  the  irritated  nerves  of  the 
disappointed  rival. 

"  You  do  me  more  honor  than  I  desire,"  said  he,  "  in  inter- 
esting yourself,  however  lightly,  in  my  schemes  or  fortune." 

"  Young  man,"  replied  Aram  coldly,  "  I  never  see  the  im- 
petuous and  yearning  spirit  of  youth  without  a  certain,  and,  it 
may  be,  a  painful  interest.  How  feeble  is  the  chance  that  its 
hopes  will  be  fulfilled  !  Enough  if  it  lose  not  all  its  loftier  as- 
pirings, as  well  as  its  brighter  expectations." 

Nothing  more  aroused  the  proud  and  fiery  temper  of  Walter 
Lester  than  the  tone  of  superior  wisdom  and  superior  age 
which  his  rival  sometimes  assumed  towards  him.  More  and  more 
displeased  with  his  present  companion,  he  answered,  in  no 
conciliatory  tone,  "  I  cannot  but  consider  the  warning  and  the 
fears  of  one,  neither  my  relation  nor  my  friend,  in  the  light  of 
a  gratuitous  affront." 

Aram  smiled  as  he  answered : 

"There  is  no  occasion  for  resentment.  Preserve  this  hot 
spirit  and  this  high  self-confidence,  till  you  return  again  to  these 
scenes,  and  I  shall  be  at  once  satisfied  and  corrected." 

"Sir,"  said  Walter,  coloring,  and  irritated  more  by  the  smile 
than  the  words  of  his  rival,  "  I  am  not  aware  by  what  right  or 
on  what  ground  you  assume  towards  me  the  superiority,  not  only 

*  Phineas  Fletcher. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  87 

of  admonition,  but  reproof.  My  uncle's  preference  towards 
you  gives  you  no  authority  over  me.  That  preference  I  do 
not  pretend  to  share.  He  paused  for  a  moment,  thinking 
Aram  might  hasten  to  reply  ;  but  as  the  student  walked  on 
with  his  usual  calmness  of  demeanor,  he  added,  stung  by  the  in- 
difference which  he  attributed,  not  altogether  without  truth,  to 
disdain,  "  And  since  you  have  taken  upon  yourself  to  caution 
me,  and  to  forebode  my  inability  to  resist  the  contamination, 
as  you  would  term  it,  of  the  world,- 1  tell  you,  that  it  may  be 
happy  for  you  to  bear  so  clear  a  conscience,  so  untouched  a 
spirit,  as  that  which  I  now  boast,  and  with  which  I  trust  in  God 
and  my  own  soul  I  shall  return  to  my  birthplace.  It  is  not  the 
holy  only  that  love  solitude  ;  and  men  may  shun  the  world 
from  another  motive  than  that  of  philosophy." 

It  was  now  Aram's  turn  to  feel  resentment,  and  this  was 
indeed  an  insinuation  not  only  unwarrantable  in  itself,  but  one 
which  a  man  of  so  peaceable  and  guileless  a  life,  affecting  even 
an  extreme  and  rigid  austerity  of  morals,  might  well  be  tempted 
to  repel  with  scorn  and  indignation  ;  and  Aram,  however  meek 
and  forbearing  in  general,  testified  in  this  instance  that  his 
wonted  gentleness  arose  from  no  lack  of  man's  natural  spirit. 
He  laid  his  hand  commandingly  on  young  Lester's  shoulder, 
and  surveyed  his  countenance  with  a  dark  and  menacing 
frown. 

"Boy!"  said  he,  "were  there  meaning  in  your  words,  I 
should  (mark  me  !)  avenge  the  insult;  as  it  is,  I  despise  it. 
Go!" 

So  high  and  lofty  was  Aram's  manner,  so  majestic  was  the 
sternness  of  his  rebuke,  and  the  dignity  of  his  bearing,  as,  wav- 
ing his  hand,  he  now  turned  away,  that  Walter  lost  his  self- 
possession  and  stood  fixed  to  the  spot,  abashed,  and  humbled 
from  his  late  anger.  It  was  not  till  Aram  had  moved  with  a 
slow  step  several  paces  backward  toward  his  home,  that  the 
bold  and  haughty  temper  of  the  young  man  returned  to  his  aid. 
Ashamed  of  himself  for  the  momentary  weakness  he  had  be- 
trayed, and  burning  to  redeem  it,  he  hastened  after  the  stately 
form  of  his  rival,  and,  planting  himself  full  in  his  path,  said,  in 
a  voice  half-choked  with  contending  emotions  : 

"  Hold  !  You  have  given  me  the  opportunity  I  have  long 
desired ;  you  yourself  have  now  broken  that  peace  which  ex- 
isted between  us,  and  which  to  me  was  more  bitter  than  worm- 
wood. You  have  dared, — yes,  dared  to  use  threatening 
language  towards  me  !  I  call  on  you  to  fulfil  your  threat.  I 
tell  you  that  I  meant,  I  desired,  I  thirsted  to  affront  you.  Now 


88  EUGENE    ARAM. 

resent  my  purposed,  premeditated  affront,  as  you  will  and 
can  ! ' 

There  was  something  remarkable  in  the  contrasted  figures  of 
the  rivals,  as  they  now  stood  fronting  each  other.  The  elastic 
and  vigorous  form  of  Walter  Lester,  his  sparkling  eyes,  his 
sunburnt  and  glowing  check,  his  clenched  hands,  and  his 
whole  frame,  alive  and  eloquent  with  the  energy,  the  heat,  the 
hasty  courage,  and  fiery  spirit  of  youth  :  on  the  other  hand, 
the  bending  frame  of  the  student,  gradually  rising  into  the 
dignity  of  its  full  height — his  pale  cheek,  in  which  the  wan 
hues  neither  deepened  nor  waned,  his  large  eye  raised  to  meet 
Walter's,  bright,  steady,  and  yet  how  calm!  Nothing  weak, 
nothing  irresolute  could  be  traced  in  that  form  or  that  lofty 
countenance  ;  yet  all  resentment  had  vanished  from  his  aspect. 
He  seemed  at  once  tranquil  and  prepared. 

''You  designed  to  affront  me  ! "  said  he  ;  "it  is  well — it  is  a 
noble  confession  ;  and  wherefore  ?  What  do  you  propose  to 
gain  by  it?  A  man  whose  whole  life  is  peace,  you  would 
provoke  to  outrage?  Would  there  be  triumph  in  this,  or  dis- 
grace ?  A  man,  whom  your  uncle  honors  and  loves,  you  would 
insult  without  cause — you  would  waylay — you  would,  after 
watching  and  creating  your  opportunity,  entrap  into  defending 
himself.  Is  this  worthy  of  that  high  spirit  of  which  you 
boasted  ?  Is  this  worthy  a  generous  anger,  or  a  noble  hatred  ? 
Away  !  you  malign  yourself.  I  shrink  from  no  quarrel— why 
should  I  ?  I  have  nothing  to  fear :  my  nerves  are  firm — my 
heart  is  faithful  to  my  will ;  my  habits  may  have  diminished 
my  strength,  but  it  is  yet  equal  to  that  of  most  men.  As  to 
the  weapons  of  the  world — they  fall  not  to  my  use.  I  might 
be  excused  by  the  most  punctilious,  for  rejecting  what  becomes 
neither  my  station  nor  my  habits  of  life  ;  but  I  learned  thus 
much  from  books  long  since,  '  Hold  thyself  prepared  for  all 
things';  I  am  so  prepared.  And  as  I  command  the  spirit,.! 
lack  not  the  skill,  to  defend  myself,  or  return  the  hostility 
of  another."  As  Aram  thus  said,  he  drew  a  pistol  from  his 
bosom  ;  and  pointed  it  leisurely  towards  a  tree,  at  the  distance 
of  some  paces. 

"Look,"  said  he  :  "You  note  that  small  discolored  and  white 
stain  in  the  bark — you  can  but  just  observe  it ;  he  who  can 
send  a  bullet  through  that  spot  need  not  fear  to  meet  the 
quarrel  which  he  seeks  to  avoid." 

Walter  turned  mechanically,  and  indignant,  though  silent, 
towards  the  tree.  Aram  fired,  and  the  ball  penetrated  the  centre 
of  the  stain.  He  then  replaced  the  pistol  in  his  bosom,  and  said  : 


EUGENE     ARAM.  89 

"Early  in  life  I  had  many  enemies,  and  I  taught  myself  these 
arts.  From  habit,  I  still  bear  about  me  the  weapons  I  trust  and 
pray  I  may  never  have  occasion  to  use.  But  to  return.  I  have 
offended  you — I  have  incurred  your  hatred — why  ?  What  are 
my  sins?" 

"Do  you  ask  the  cause?"  said  Walter,  speaking  between 
his  ground  teeth.  "  Have  you  not  traversed  my  views — blighted 
my  hopes — charmed  away  from  me  the  affections  which  were 
more  to  me  than  the  world,  and  driven  me  to  wander  from  my 
home  with  a  crushed  spirit  and  a  cheerless  heart  ?  Are  these 
no  causes  for  hate  ?" 

"Have  I  done  this?"  said  Aram,  recoiling,  and  evidently 
and  powerfully  affected.  "  Have  I  so  injured  you  ?  It  is 
true  !  I  know  it — I  perceive  it — I  read  your  heart ;  and — 
bear  witness  Heaven  !  I  feel  for  the  wound  that  I,  but  with 
no  guilty  hand,  inflict  upon  you.  Yet  be  just :  ask  yourself, 
have  I  done  aught  that  you,  in  my  case,  would  have  left  un- 
done ?  Have  I  been  insolent  in  triumph,  or  haughty  in 
success  ?  If  so,  hate  me,  nay,  spurn  me,  now." 

Walter  turned  his  head  irresolutely  away. 

"If  it  please  you,  that  I  accuse  myself,  in  that  I,  a  man 
seared  and  lone  at  heart,  presumed  to  come  within  the  pale  of 
human  affections;  that  I  exposed  myself  to  cross  another's 
better  and  brighter  hopes,  or  dared  to  soften  my  fate  with  the 
tender  and  endearing  ties  that  are  meet  alone  for  a  more 
genial  and  youthful  nature  ;  if  it  please  you  that  I  accuse  and 
curse  myself  for  this — that  I  yielded  to  it  with  pain  and  with 
self-reproach — that  I  shall  think  hereafter  of  what  I  uncon- 
sciously cost  you,  with  remorse — then  be  consoled  ! " 

"It  is  enough,"  said  Walter;  "let  us  part.  I  leave  you 
with  more  soreness  at  my  late  haste  than  I  will  acknowledge  ; 
let  that  content  you :  for  myself,  I  ask  for  no  apology  or— 

"But  you  shall  have  it  amply,"  interrupted  Aram,  advancing 
with  a  cordial  openness  of  mien  not  usual  to  him.  "I  was  all 
to  blame;  I  should  have  remembered  you  were  an  injured  man, 
and  suffered  you  to  have  said  all  you  would.  Words  at  best  are 
but  a  poor  vent  for  a  wronged  and  burningheart.  It  shall  be  so 
in  future  :  speak  your  will,  attack,  upbraid,  taunt  me,  I  will  bear 
it  all.  And,  indeed,  even  to  myself  there  appears  some  witchcraft, 
some  glamoury,  in  what  has  chanced.  What !  I  favored  where 
you  love?  Is  it  possible?  It  might  teach  the  vainest  to  for- 
swear vanity.  You,  the  young,  the  buoyant,  the  fresh,  the  beau- 
tiful ?  And  I,  who  have  passed  the  glory  and  zest  of  life  between 
dusty  walls;  I  who — well,  well,  Fate  laughs  at  probabilities  !" 


90  EUGENE      ARAM. 

Aram  now  seemed  relapsing  into  one  of  his  more  abstracted 
moods ;  he  ceased  to  speak  aloud,  but  his  lips  moved,  and  his 
eyes  grew  fixed  in  revery  on  the  ground.  Walter  gazed  at  him 
for  some  moments  with  mixed  and  contending  sensations. 
Once  more,  resentment  and  the  bitter  wrath  of  jealousy  had 
faded  back  into  the  remoter  depths  of  his  mind,  and  a  certain 
interest  for  his  singular  rival,  despite  of  himself,  crept  into  his 
breast.  But  this  mysterious  and  fitful  nature, — was  it  one  in 
which  the  devoted  Madeline  would  certainly  find  happiness 
and  repose? — would  she  never  regret  her  choice?  This  ques- 
tion obtruded  itself  upon  him,  and,  while  he  sought  to  answer 
it,  Aram,  regaining  his  composure,  turned  abruptly  and  offered 
him  his  hand.  Walter  did  not  accept  it ;  he  bowed,  with  a 
cold  aspect.  "I  cannot  give  my  hand  without  my  heart," 
said  he  ;  "we  were  foes  just  now  ;  we  are  not  friends  yet.  I 
am  unreasonable  in  this,  I  know,  but — " 

"Be  it  so,"  interrupted  Aram;  "I  understand  you.  I  press 
my  good  will  on  you  no  more.  When  this  pang  is  forgotten, 
when  this  wound  is  healed,  and  when  you  will  have  learned 
more  of  him  who  is  now  your  rival,  we  may  meet  again,  with 
other  feelings  on  your  side." 

Thus  they  parted,  and  the  solitary  lamp  which  for  weeks 
past  had  been  quenched  at  the  wholesome  hour  in  the  student's 
home,  streamed  from  the  casement  throughout  the  whole  of 
that  night ;  was  it  a  witness  of  the  calm  and  learned  vigil,  or 
of  the  unresting  heart?" 


CHAPTER    XI. 

THE  FAMILY  SUPPER. — THE  TWO  SISTERS  IN  THEIR  CHAM- 
BER.— A  MISUNDERSTANDING  FOLLOWED  BV  A  CONFES- 
SION.— WALTER'S  APPROACHING  DEPARTURE,  AND  THE  COR- 
PORAL'S BEHAVIOR  THEREON. — THE  CORPORAL'S  FAVORITE 

INTRODUCED     TO      THE    READER. THE    CORPORAL    PROVES 

HIMSELF    A    SUBTLE    DIPLOMATIST. 

"  So  we  grew  together 
Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted, 
But  yet  an  union  in  partition." — Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream. 

"The  corporal  had  not  taken  his  measures  so  badly  in  this  stroke  of  artil- 
leryship." — Tristram  Shandy. 

IT  was  late  that  evening  when  Walter  returned  home;    the 
little  family  were  assembled  at  the  last  and  lightest  meal  of  the 


EUGENE     ARAM.  91 

day  ;  Ellinor  silently  made  room  for  her  cousin  beside  herself, 
and  that  little  kindness  touched  Walter.  "  Why  did  I  not  love 
her!"  thought  he  ;  and  he  spoke  to  her  in  a  tone  so  affection- 
ate that  it  made  her  heart  thrill  with  delight.  Lester  was,  on 
the  whole,  the  most  pensive  of  the  group ;  but  the  old  and 
young  man  exchanged  looks  of  restored  confidence,  which,  on 
the  part  of  the  former,  were  softened  by  a  pitying  tenderness. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed,  and  the  servants  gone,  Lester 
took  it  on  himself  to  break  to  the  sisters  the  intended  departure 
of  their  cousin.  Madeline  received  the  news  with  painful 
blushes,  and  a  certain  self-reproach  ;  for  even  where  a  woman 
has  no  cause  to  blame  herself,  she,  in  these  cases,  feels  a 
sort  of  remorse  at  the  unhappiness  she  occasions.  But  Ellinor 
rose  suddenly  and  left  the  room. 

"And  now,"  said  Lester,  "London  will,  I  suppose,  be  your 
first  destination.  I  can  furnish  you  with  letters  to  some  of  my 
old  friends  there  :  merry  fellows  they  were  once :  you  must 
take  care  of  the  prodigality  of  their  wine.  There's  John  Court- 
land— ah  !  a  seductive  dog  to  drink  with.  Be  sure  and  let  me 
know  how  honest  John  looks,  and  what  he  says  of  me.  I  recol- 
lect him  as  if  it  were  yesterday ;  a  roguish  eye,  with  a  moisture 
in  it ;  full  cheeks  ;  a  straight  nose  ;  black,  curled  hair ;  and 
teeth  as  even  as  dies  :  honest  John  showed  his  teeth  pretty 
often,  too  :  ha,  ha !  how  the  dog  loved  a  laugh  !  Well,  and 
Peter  Hales — Sir  Peter  now,  has  his  uncle's  baronetcy— a  gen- 
erous, open-hearted  fellow  as  ever  lived — will  ask  you  very 
often  to  dinner — nay,  offer  you  money  if  you  want  it :  but  take 
care  he  does  not  lead  you  into  extravagances  :  out  of  debt  out 
of  danger,  Walter.  It  would  have  been  well  for  poor  Peter 
Hales,  had  he  remembered  that  rnaxim.  Often  and  often  have 
I  been  to  see  him  in  the  Marshalsea ;  but  he  was  the  heir  to 
good  fortunes,  though  his  relations  kept  him  close  ;  sol  sup- 
pose he  is  well  off  now.  His  estates  lie  in shire,  on  your 

road  to  London ;  so,  if  he  is  at  his  country  seat,  you  can  beat 
up  his  quarters,  and  spend  a  month  or  so  with  him :  a  most 
hospitable  fellow." 

With  these  little  sketches  of  his  contemporaries  the  good 
squire  endeavored  to  while  the  time,  taking,  it  is  true,  some 
pleasure  in  the  youthful  reminiscences  they  excited,  but  chiefly 
designed  to  enliven  the  melancholy  of  his  nephew.  When, 
however,  Madeline  had  retired,  and  they  were  alone,  he'  drew 
his  chair  closer  to  Walter's,  and  changed  the  conversation  into 
a  more  serious  and  anxious  strain.  The  guardian  and  the 
ward  sat  up  late  that  night ;  and  when  Walter  retired  to  rest, 


92  EUGENE     ARAM. 

it  was  with  a  heart  more  touched  by  his  uncle's  kindness  than 
his  own  sorrows. 

But  we  are  not  about  to  close  the  day  without  a  glance  at 
the  chamber  which  the  two  sisters  held  in  common.  The  night 
was  serene  and  starlit,  and  Madeline  sat  by  the  open  window, 
leaning  her  face  upon  her  hand,  and  gazing  on  the  lone  house 
of  her  lover,  which  might  be  seen  far  across  the  landscape,  the 
trees  sleeping  around  it,  and  one  pale  and  steady  light  gleam- 
ing from  its  lofty  casement  like  a  star. 

"  He  has  broken  faith,"  said  Madeline  ;  "  I  shall  chide  him 
for  this  to-morrow.  He  premised  me  the  light  should  be  ever 
quenched  before  this  hour." 

"  Nay,"  said  Ellinor,  in  a  tone  somewhat  sharpened  from  its 
native  sweetness,  and  who  now  sat  up  in  the  bed,  the  curtain 
of  which  was  half-drawn  aside,  and  the  soft  light  of  the  skies 
rested  full  upon  her  rounded  neck  and  youthful  countenance, — 
"nay,  Madeline,  do  not  loiter  there  any  longer  ;  the  air  grows 
sharp  and  cold,  and  the  clock  struck  one  several  minutes  since. 
Come,  sister,  come  !  " 

"  I  cannot  sleep,"  replied  Madeline,  sighing,  "  and  think  that 
yon  light  streams  upon  those  studies  which  steal  the  healthful 
hues  from  his  cheek,  and  the  very  life  from  his  heart." 

"  You  are  infatuated, — you  are  bewitched  by  that  man,"  said 
Ellinor  peevishly. 

"  And  have  I  not  cause — ample  cause  ? "  returned  Madeline, 
with  all  a  girl's  beautiful  enthusiasm,  as  the  color  mantled  her 
cheek,  and  gave  it  the  only  additional  loveliness  it  could  re- 
ceive. "  When  he  speaks,  is  it  not  like  music  ? — or  rather,  what 
music  so  arrests  and  touches  the  heart  ?  Methinks  it  is  heaven 
only  to  gaze  upon  him,  to  note  the  changes  of  that  majestic 
countenance,  to  set  down  as  food  for  memory  every  look  and 
every  movement.  But  when  the  look  turns  to  me, — when  the 
voice  utters  my  name,  ah  !  Ellinor,  then  it  is  not  a  wonder  that 
I  love  him  thus  much  :  but  that  any  others  should  think  they 
have  known  love,  and  yet  not  loved  him  !  And,  indeed,  I  feel 
assured  that  what  the  world  calls  love  is  not  my  love.  Are 
there  more  Eugenes  in  the  world  than  one  ?  Who  but  Eugene 
could  be  loved  as  I  love  ? " 

"  What !  are  there  none  as  worthy  ? "  said  Ellinor,  half 
smiling. 

"  Can  you  ask  it  ? "  answered  Madeline,  with  a  simple  wonder 
in  her  voice  :  "  whom  would  you  compare — compare  !  nay, 
place  within  a  hundred  grades  of  the  height  which  Eugene 
Aram  holds  in  this  little  world  ?  " 


EUGENE     ARAM.  93 

"  This  is  folly — dotage,"  said  Ellinor  indignantly:  "surely 
there  are  others  as  brave,  as  gentle,  as  kind,  and,  if  not  so  wise, 
yet  more  fitted  for  the  world." 

"  You  mock  me,"  remarked  Madeline  incredulously  ;  "  whom 
could  you  select  ? " 

Ellinor  blushed  deeply, — blushed  from  her  snowy  temples  to 
her  yet  whiter  bosom,  as  she  answered  : 

"  If  I  said  Walter  Leslie,  could  you  deny  it  ?  " 

"Walter ! "  repeated  Madeline ;  "  he  equal  to  Eugene 
Aram  !  " 

"  Ay.'and  more  than  equal,"  said  Ellinor,  with  spirit,  and  a 
warm  and  angry  tone.  "  And,  indeed,  Madeline,"  she  continued, 
after  a  pause,  "  I  lose  something  of  that  respect  which,  passing 
a  sister's  love,  I  have  always  borne  towards  you,  when  I  see  the 
unthinking  and  lavish  idolatry  you  manifest  to  one'who,  but 
for  a  silver  tongue  and  florid  words,  would  rather  want  attrac- 
tions than  be  the  wonder  you  esteem  him.  Fie,  Madeline  !  I 
blush  for  you  when  you  speak ;  it  is  unmaidenly  so  to  love  any 
one  ! " 

Madeline  rose  from  the  window  ;  but  the  angry  word  died 
on  her  lips  when  she  saw  that  Ellinor,  who  had  worked  her 
mind  beyond  her  self-control,  had  thrown  herself  back  on  the 
pillow  and  now  sobbed  aloud. 

The  natural  temper  of  the  elder  sister  had  always  been  much 
more  calm  and  even  than  that  of  the  younger,  who  united  with 
her  vivacity  something  of  the  passionate  caprice  and  fitfulness 
of  her  sex.  And  Madeline's  affection  for  her  had  been  tinged 
by  that  character  of  forbearance  and  soothing,  which  a 
superior  nature  often  manifests  to  one  more  imperfect,  and 
which  in  this  instance  did  not  desert  her.  She  gently  closed 
the  window,  and,  gliding  to  the  bed,  threw  her  arms  around 
her  sister's  neck  and  kissed  away  her  tears  with  a  caressing 
fondness,  that  if  Ellinor  resisted  for  one  moment  she  returned 
with  equal  tenderness  the  next. 

"Indeed,  dearest,"  said  Madeline  gently,  "  I  cannot  guess 
how  I  hurt  you,  and  still  less  how  Eugene  has  offended  you." 

"  He  has  offended  me  in  nothing,"  replied  Ellinor,  still 
weeping,  "if  he  has  not  stolen  away  all  your  affection  from  me. 
But  I  was  a  foolish  girl ;  forgive  me,  as  you  always  do  ;  and  at 
this  time  I  need  your  kindness,  for  I  am  very,  very  unhappy." 

"  Unhappy,  dearest  Nell,  and  why  ?  " 

Ellinor  wept  on  without  answering. 

Madeline  persisted  in  pressing  for  a  reply  ;  and  at  length 
her  sister  sobbed  out : 


94  EUGENE      ARAM. 

"I  know  that — that  Walter  only  has  eyes  for  you,  and  a 
heart  for  you,  who  neglect,  who  despise  his  love  ;  and  I — I — 
but  no  matter,  he  is  going  to  leave  us,  and  of  me — poor  me,  he 
will  think  no  more  !  " 

Ellinor's  attachment  to  their  cousin,  Madeline  had  long 
half  suspected,  and  she  had  often  rallied  her  sister  upon  it  ; 
indeed,  it  might  have  been  this  suspicion  which  made  her  at 
the  first  steel  her  breast  against  Walter's  evident  preference  to 
herself.  But  Ellinor  had  never  till  now  seriously  confessed 
how  much  her  heart  was  affected  ;  and  Madeline,  in  .the  nat- 
ural engrossment  of  her  own  ardent  and  devoted  love,  had  not 
of  late  spared  much  observation  to  the  tokens  of  her  sister's. 
She  was  therefore  dismayed,  if  not  surprised,  as  she  now  per- 
ceived the  cause  of  the  peevishness  Ellinor  had  just  mani- 
fested, and  by  the  nature  of  the  love  she  felt  herself,  she 
judged,  and  perhaps  somewhat  overrated,  the  anguish  that 
Ellinor  endured. 

She  strove  to  comfort  her  by  all  the  arguments  which  the 
fertile  ingenuity  of  kindness  could  invent ;  she  prophesied 
Walter's  speedy  return,  with  his  boyish  disappointment  forgot- 
ten, and  with  eyes  no  longer  blinded  to  the  attractions  of  one 
sister  by  a  bootless  fancy  for  another.  And  though  Ellinor 
interrupted  her  from  time  to  time  with  assertions, — now  of 
Walter's  eternal  constancy  to  his  present  idol, — now  with  yet 
more  vehement  declarations  of  the  certainty  of  his  finding  new 
objects  for  his  affections  in  new  scenes,  she  yet  admitted,  by 
little  and  little,  the  persuasive  power  of  Madeline  to  creep  into 
her  heart,  and  brighten  away  its  griefs  with  hope,  till  at  last, 
with  the  tears  yet  wet  on  her  cheek,  she  fell  asleep  in  her  sis- 
ter's arms. 

And  Madeline,  though  she  would  not  stir  from  her  post  lest 
the  movement  should  awaken  her  sister,  was  yet  prevented 
from  closing  her  eyes  in  a  similar  repose  ;  ever  and  anon  she 
breathlessly  and  gently  raised  herself  to  steal  a  glimpse  of  that 
solitary  light  afar  ;  and  ever,  as  she  looked,  the  ray  greeted  her 
eyes  with  an  unswerving  and  melancholy  stillness,  till  the  dawn 
crept  grayly  over  the  heavens,  and  that  speck  of  light,  holier  to 
her  than  the  stars,  faded  also  with  them  beneath  the  broader 
lustre  of  the  day. 

The  next  week  was  passed  in  preparations  for  Walter's  depar- 
ture. At  that  time,  and  in  that  distant  part  of  the  country,  it 
was  greatly  the  fashion  among  the  younger  travellers  to  perform 
their  excursions  on  horseback,  and  it  was  this  method  of  con- 
veyance that  Walter  preferred.  The  best  steed  in  the  squire's 


EUGENE      ARAM.  95 

stables  was  therefore  appropriated  to  his  service,  and  a  strong 
black  horse  with  a  Roman  nose  and  a  long  tail  was  consigned 
to  the  mastery  of  Corporal  Bunting.  The  squire  was  delighted 
that  his  nephew  had  secured  such  an  attendant.  For  the  sol- 
dier, though  odd  and  selfish,  was  a  man  of  some  sense  and 
experience,  and  Lester  thought  such  qualities  might  not  be 
without  their  use  to  a  young  master,  new  to  the  common  frauds 
and  daily  usages  of  the  world  he  was  about  to  enter. 

As  for  Bunting  himself,  he  covered  his  secret  exultation  at 
the  prospect  of  change  and  board-wages  with  the  cool  sem- 
blance of  a  man  sacrificing  his  wishes  to  his  affections,  lie  made 
it  his  peculiar  study  to  impress  upon  the  squire's  mind  the  ex- 
tent of  the  sacrifice  he  was  about  to  make.  The  bit  cot  had 
been  just  whitewashed,  the  pet  cat  just  lain  in  ;  then,  too,  who 
would  dig,  and  gather  seeds  in  the  garden,  defend  the  plants 
(plants  ?  the  corporal  could  scarce  count  a  dozen,  and  nine  out 
of  them  were  cabbages  !)  from  the  impending  frosts  ?  It  was 
exactly,  too,  the  time  of  year  when  the  rheumatism  paid  flying 
visits  to  the  bones  and  loins  of  the  worthy  corporal  ;  and  to 
think  of  his  "galavanting  about  the  country  "  when  he  ought 
to  be  guarding  against  that  sly  foe,  the  lumbago,  in  the  fortress 
of  his  chimney-corner  ! 

To  all  these  murmurs  and  insinuations  the  good  Lester  se- 
riously inclined,  not  with  the  less  sympathy,  in  that  they  invari- 
ably ended  in  the  corporal's  slapping  his  manly  thigh,  and 
swearing  that  he  loved  Master  Walter  like  gunpowder,  and  that 
were  it  twenty  times  as  much  he  would  cheerfully  do  it  for  the 
sake  of  his  handsome  young  honor.  Ever  at  this  peroration 
the  eyes  of  the  squire  began  to  twinkle,  and  new  thanks  were 
given  to  the  veteran  for  his  disinterested  affection,  and  new 
promises  pledged  him  in  inadequate  return. 

The  pious  Dealtry  felt  a  little  jealousy  at  the  trust  imparted 
to  his  friend.  He  halted,  on  his  return  from  his  farm,  by  the 
spruce  stile  which  led  to  the  demesne  of  the  corporal,  and  eyed 
the  warrior  somewhat  sourly,  as  he  now,  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening,  sat  without  his  door  arranging  his  fishing-tackle  and 
flies  in  various  little  papers,  which  he  carefully  labelled  by  the 
help  of  a  stunted  pen  that  had  seen  at  least  as  much  service 
as  himself. 

"Well,  neighbor  Bunting,"  said  the  little  landlord,  leaning 
over  the  stile,  but  not  passing  its  boundary,  "  and  when  do  you 
go  ?  You  will  have  wet  weather  of  it  (looking  up  to  the  skies)  ; 
you  must  take  care  of  the  rumatiz.  At  your  age  it's  no  trifle, 
eh-hem." 


96  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"  My  age  !  should  like  to  know — what  mean  by  tKat !  my 
age,  indeed  ! — augh  ! — bother  !  "  grunted  Bunting,  looking  up 
from  his  occupation.  Peter  chuckled  inly  at  the  corporal's 
displeasure,  and  continued,  as  in  an  apologetic  tone  : 

"  Oh,  I  ax  your  pardon,  neighbor.  I  don't  mean  to  say  you 
are  too  old  to  travel.  Why  there  was  Hal  Whitol  eighty-two 
come  next  Michaelmas,  took  a  trip  to  Lunnun  last  year, — 

'  For  young  and  old,  the  stout,  the  poorly, 
The  eye  of  God  be  on  them  surely.'  " 

"  Bother  !  "  said  the  corporal,  turning  round  on  his  seat. 

"  And  what  do  you  intend  doing  with  the  brindled  cat  ?  put 
'un  up  in  the  saddle-bags  ?  You  won't  surely  have  the  heart 
to  leave  'un." 

"  As  to  that,"  quoth  the  corporal,  sighing,  "  the  poor  dumb 
animal  makes  me  sad  to  think  on  't."  And,  putting  down  his 
fish-hooks,  he  stroked  the  sides  of  an  enormous  cat,  who  now, 
with  tail  on  end,  and  back  bowed  up.  and  uttering  her  Icnes  su- 
surrus — Anglice,  purr  !  rubbed  herself  to  and  fro  athwart  the 
corporal's  legs. 

"  What  staring  there  for  ?  won't  ye  step  in,  man  ?  Can 
climb  the  stile  I  suppose  ? — augh  !  " 

"  No,  thank  ye,  neighbor.  I  do  very  well  here,  that  is,  if  you 
can  hear  me  ;  your  deafness  is  not  so  troublesome  as  it  was 
last  win — " 

"  Bother  !  "  interrupted  the  corporal,  in  a  voice  that  made 
the  little  landlord  start  bolt  upright  from  the  easy  confidence 
of  his  position.  Nothing  on  earth  so  offended  the  perpendic- 
ular Jacob  Bunting  as  any  insinuation  of  increasing  years  or 
growing  infirmities  ;  but  at  this  moment,  as  he  meditated  put- 
ting Dealtry  to  some  use,  he  prudently  conquered  the  gather- 
ing anger,  and  added,  like  the  man  of  the  world  he  justly  plumed 
himself  on  being,  in  a  voice  gentle  as  a  dying  howl  : 

"  What  'fraid  on  ?  Come  in,  there's  good  fellow  :  want  to 
speak  to  ye.  Comedo — a-u-g-h  !  "  the  last  sound  being  pro- 
longed into  one  of  unutterable  coaxingness,  and  accompanied 
with  a  beck  of  the  hand  and  a  wheedling  wink. 

These  allurements  the  good  Peter  could  not  resist  ;  he  clam- 
bered the  stile,  and  seated  himself  on  the  bench  beside  the 
corporal. 

"  There  now,  fine  fellow,  fit  for  the  Forty-second,"  said  Bunt- 
ing, clapping  him  on  the  back.  "  Well,  and — a-nd — a  beauti- 
ful cat,  isn't  her  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Peter,  very  shortly — for  though  a  remarkably 


EUGENE     ARAM.  97 

mild  man,  Peter  did  not  love  cats  :  moreover,  we  must  now  in- 
form the  reader  that  the  cat  of  Jacob  Bunting  was  one  more 
feared  than  respected  throughout  the  village.  The  corporal 
was  a  cunning  instructor  of  all  animals  :  he  could  teach  gold- 
finches the  use  of  the  musket ;  dogs,  the  art  of  the  broadsword  ; 
horses,  to  dance  hornpipes  and  pick  pockets  ;  and  he  had  re- 
lieved the  ennui  of  his  solitary  moments  by  imparting  sundry 
accomplishments  to  the  ductile  genius  of  his  cat.  Under  his 
tuition  puss  had  learned  to  fetch  and  carry  ;  to  turn  over  head 
and  tail  like  a  tumbler  ;  to  run  up  your  shoulder  when  you 
least  expected  it ;  to  fly  as  if  she  were  mad  at  any  one  upon 
whom  the  corporal  thought  fit  to  set  her  ;  and,  above  all,  to 
rob  larders,  shelves,  and  tables,  and  bring  the  produce  to  the  cor- 
poral, who  never  failed  to  consider  such  stray  waifs  lawful 
manorial  acquisitions.  These  little  feline  cultivations  of  talent, 
however  delightful  to  the  corporal,  and  creditable  to  his 
powers  of  teaching  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot,  had,  neverthe- 
less, since  the  truth  must  be  told,  rendered  the  corporal's  cat 
a  proverb  and  by-word  throughout  the  neighborhood.  Never 
was  cat  in  such  bad  odor  ;  and  the  dislike  in  which  it  was  held 
was  wonderfully  increased  by  tenor  ;  for  the  creature  was 
singularly  large  and  robust,  and  withal  of  so  courageous  a  tem- 
per, that  if  you  attempted  to  resist  its  invasion  of  your  proper- 
ty it  forthwith  set  up  its  back,  put  down  its  ears,  opened  its 
mouth,  and  bade  you  fully  comprehend  that  what  it  feloniously 
seized  it  could  gallantly  defend.  More  than  one  gossip  in  the 
village  had  this  notable  cat  hurried  into  premature  parturition 
as,  on  descending  at  daybreak  into  the  kitchen,  the  dame 
would  descry  the  animal  perched  on  the  dresser,  having  en- 
tered Heaven  knows  how,  and  glaring  upon  her  with  its  great 
green  eyes,  and  a  malignant  brawnie  expression  of  counte- 
nance. 

Various  deputations  had,  indeed,  from  time  to  time  arrived 
at  the  corporal's  cottage  requesting  the  death,  expulsion,  or 
perpetual  imprisonment  of  the  favorite.  But  the  stout  corpo- 
ral received  them  grimly,  and  dismissed  them  gruffly,  and  the 
cat  went  on  waxing  in  size  and  wickedness,  and  baffling,  as  if 
inspired  by  the  devil,  the  various  gins  and  traps  set  for  its 
destruction.  But  never,  perhaps,  was  there  a  greater  disturb- 
ance and  perturbation  in  the  little  hamlet  than  when,  some 
three  weeks  since,  the  corporal's  cat  was  known  to  be  brought 
to  bed,  and  safely  delivered  of  a  numerous  offspring.  The 
village  saw  itself  overrun  with  a  race  and  a  perpetuity  of  cor- 
poral's cats  !  Perhaps,  too,  their  teacher  growing  more  expert 


98  EUGENE     ARAM. 

by  practice,  the  descendants  might  attain  to  even  greater  ac- 
complishment than  their  nefarious  progenitor.  No  longer  did 
the  faint  hope  of  being  delivered  from  their  tormentor  by  an 
untimely  or  even  natural  death  occur  to  the  harrassed  Grass- 
dalians.  Death  was  an  incident  natural  to  one  cat,  however 
vivacious,  but  here  was  a  dynasty  of  cats  !  Principes  mortales^ 
respublica  czterna  ! 

Now  the  corporal  loved  this  creature  better,  yes,  better  than 
•  anything  in  the  world  except  travelling  and  board  wages;  and 
he  was  sorely  perplexed  in  his  mind  how  he  should  be  able  to 
dispose  of  her  safely  in  his  absence.  He  was  aware  of  the 
general  enmity  she  had  inspired,  and  trembled  to  anticipate  its 
probable  result  when  he  was  no  longer  by  to  afford  her 
shelter  and  protection.  The  squire  had,  indeed,  offered  her 
an  asylum  at  the  manor-house  ;  but  the  squire's  cook  was  the 
cat's  most  embittered  enemy  ;  and  what  man  can  answer  for  the 
peaceable  behavior  of  his  cook  ?  The  corporal,  therefore,  with 
a  reluctant  sigh,  renounced  the  friendly  offer,  and  after  lying 
awake  three  nights,  and  turning  over  in  his  mind  the  charac- 
ters, consciences,  and  capabilities  of  all  his  neighbors,  he  came 
at  last  to  the  conviction  that  there  was  no  one  with  whom  he 
could  so  safely  intrust  his  cat  as  Peter  Dealtry.  It  is  true,  as  we 
said  before,  that  Peter  was  no  lover  of  cats  ;  and  the  task  of 
pursuading  him  to  afford  board  and  lodging  to  a  cat,  of  all  cats 
the  most  odious  and  malignant,  was  therefore  no  easy  matter. 
But  to  a  man  of  the  world  what  intrigue  is  impossible  ? 

The  finest  diplomatist  in  Europe  might  have  taken  a  lesson 
from  the  corporal,  as  he  now  proceeded  earnestly  towards  the 
accomplishment  of  his  project. 

He  took  the  cat,  which,  by  the  by,  we  forgot  to  say  that  he 
had  thought  fit  to  christen  after  himself,  and  to  honor  with  a 
name,  somewhat  lengthy  for  a  cat  (but,  indeed,  this  was  no 
ordinary  cat  !)  namely  Jacobina — he  took  Jacobina  then,  we 
say,  upon  his  lap,  and,  stroking  her  brindled  sides  with  great 
tenderness,  he  bade  Dealtry  remark  how  singularly  quiet  the 
animal  was  in  its  manners.  Nay,  he  was  not  contented  until 
Peter  himself  had  patted  her  with  a  timorous  hand,  and  had 
reluctantly  submitted  the  said  hand  to  the  honor  of  being 
licked  by  the  cat  in  return.  Jacobina,  who.  to  do  her  justice, 
was  always  meek  enough  in  the  presence  and  at  the  will 
of  her  master,  was,  fortunately,  this  day,  on  her  very  best 
behavior. 

"  Them  dumb  animals  be  mighty  grateful,"  quoth  the  cor- 
poral. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  99 

"  Ah  ! "  rejoined  Peter,  wiping  his  hand  with  his  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

"  But,  Lord !  what  scandal  there  be  in  the  world  !  " 

"  '  Though  slander's  breath  may  raise  a  storm, 

It  quickly  does  decay  ! '  " 
muttered  Peter. 

"  Very  well,  very  true  ;  sensible  verses  those,"  said  the  cor- 
poral approvingly  :  "  and  yet  mischief's  often  done  before  the 
amends  come.  Body  o'  me,  it  makes  a  man  sick  of  his  kind, 
ashamed  to  belong  to  the  race  of  men,  to  see  the  envy  that 
abounds  in  this  here  sublunary  wale  of  tears  !  "  said  the  cor- 
poral, lifting  up  his  eyes. 

Peter  stared  at  him  with  open  mouth ;  the  hypocritical  ras- 
cal continued,  after  a  pause  : 

"  Now  there's  Jacobina,  'cause  she's  a  good  cat,  a  faithful 
servant,  the  whole  village  is  against  her  :  such  lies  as  they  tell 
on  her,  such  wappers,  }ou'd  think  she  was  the  devil  in  garnet  !' 
I  grant,  I  grant,"  added  the  corporal,  in  a  tone  of  apologetic 
candor,  "  that  she's  wild,  saucy,  knows  her  friends  from  her 
foes,  steals  Goody  Solomon's  butter  ;  but  what  then  ?  Goody 
Solomon's  d — db — h!  Goody  Solomon  sold  beer  in  opposi- 
tion to  you,  set  up  a  public  ;  you  do  not  like  Goody  Solomon, 
Peter  Dealtry  ?  " 

"  If  that  were  all  Jacobina  had  done  !  "  said  the  landlord 
grinning. 

"  All !  what  else  did  she  do  ?  Why,  she  eat  up  John  Tom- 
kin's  canary-bird  ;  and  did  not  John  Tomkins,  saucy  rascal/ 
say  you  could  not  sing  better  nor  a  raven  ?" 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  against  the  poor  creature  for  that," 
said  Peter,  stroking  the  cat  of  his  own  accord.  "  Cats  will 
eat  birds,  'tis  the  'spensation  of  Providence.  But  what,  cor- 
poral ! "  and  Peter,  hastily  withdrawing  his  hand,  hurried  it 
into  his  breeches  pocket — but  what !  did  not  she  scratch  Joe 
Webster's  little  boy's  hand  into  ribands,  because  the  boy  tried 
to  prevent  her  running  off  with  a  ball  of  string  ?  " 

"  And  well,"  grunted  the  corporal,  "  that  was  not  Jacobina's 
doing  ;  that  was  my  doing.  I  wanted  the  string — offered  to 
pay  a  penny  for  it — think  of  that !  " 

"  It  was  priced  two  pence  ha'  penny,"  said  Peter. 

"  Augh — baugh  !  You  would  not  pay  Joe  Webster  all  he 
asks  !  What's  the  use  of  being  a  man  of  the  world,  unless  one 
makes  one's  tradesman  bate  a  bit  ?  Bargaining  is  not  cheating, 
I  hope  ? " 

"  Heaven  forbid  ! "  said  Peter. 


tOO  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"But  as  to  the  bit  string,  Jacobina  took  it  solely  for  your 
sake.  Ah,  she  did  not  think  you  were  to  turn  against  her  !  " 

So  saying,  the  corporal  got  up,  walked  into  his  house,  and 
presently  came  back  with  a  little  net  in  his  hand. 

"  There,  Peter,  net  for  you,  to  hold  lemons.  Thank  Jacob- 
ina for  that ;  she  got  the  string.  Says  I  to  her  one  day,  as  I 
was  sitting,  as  I  might  be  now,  without  the  door,  '  Jacobina, 
Peter  Dealtry's  a  good  fellow,  and  he  keeps  his  lemons  in  a 
bag  :  bad  habit, — get  mouldy, — we'll  make  him  a  net ' ;  and 
Jacobina  purred  (stroke  the  poor  creature,  Peter !) — so  Jacob- 
ina and  I  took  a  walk,  and  when  we  came  to  Joe  Webster's,  I 
pointed  out  the  ball  o'  twine  to  her.  So,  for  your  sake,  Peter, 
she  got  into  this  here  scrape — augh." 

"Ah!"  quoth  Peter,  laughing,  "poor  puss!  poor  pussy! 
poor  little  pussy  !  " 

"  And  now,  Peter,"  said  the  corporal,  taking  his  friend's 
hand,  "  I  am  going  to  prove  friendship  to  you — going  to  do  you 
great  favor." 

"  Aha  !  "  said  Peter,  "  my  good  friend,  I'm  very  much  obliged 
to  you.  I  know  your  kind  heart,  but  I  really  don't  want 
any — " 

"  Bother !  "  cried  the  corporal ;  "  I'm  not  the  man  as  makes 
much  of  doing  a  friend  a  kindnsss.  Hold  jaw  !  Tell  you  what, 
tell  you  what  :  am  going  away  on  Wednesday  at  daybreak,  and 
in  my  absence  you  shall — " 

'  What  ?  my  good  corporal  ? " 

'  Take  charge  of  Jacobina  !  " 

'Take  charge  of  the  devil  !"  cried  Peter. 

'  Augh  ! — baugh  ! — what  words  are  those?     Listen  to  me." 

'  I  won't  !  " 

'  You  shall  !  " 

'  I'll  be  d— d  if  I  do  !  "  quoth  Peter  sturdily.  It  was  the 
first  time  he  had  been  known  to  swear  since  he  was  parish 
clerk ! " 

"  Very  well,  very  well  !  "  said  the  corporal,  chucking  up  his 
chin,  "  Jacobina  can  take  care  of  herself  ! — Jacobina  knows 
her  friends  and  her  foes  as  well  as  her  master  !  Jacobina 
never  injures  her  friends,  never  forgives  foes.  Look  to  your- 
self !  look  to  yourself  !  Insult  my  cat,  insult  me  !  Swear  at 
Jacobina,  indeed  !  " 

"  If  she  steals  my  cream  !  "  cried  Peter. 

"  Did  she  ever  steal  your  cream  ?  " 

"  No  !  but  if—" 

"  Did  she  ever  steal  your  cream  !  " 


EUGENE     ARAM.  IOI 

"  I  can't  say  she  ever  did." 
"Or  anything  else  of  yours  ?" 
"  Not  that  I  know  of  ;  but — " 
"  Never  too  late  to  mend." 
"If— " 

"  Will  you  listen  to  me  or  not  ?  " 

"Well." 

"  You'll  listen  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Know,  then,  that  1  wanted  to  do  you  kindness." 

"  Humph  !  " 

"  Hold  jaw  !     I  taught  Jacobinaall  she  knows." 

"  More's  the  pity  !  " 

"  Hold  jaw  !  I  taught  her  to  respect  her  friends, — never  to 
commit  herself  indoors— never  to  steal  at  home — never  to  fly 
at  home — never  to  scratch  at  home — to  kill  mice  and  rats — 
bring  all  she  catches  to  her  master — to  do  what  he  tells  her — 
and  to  defend  his  house  as  well  as  a  mastiff  :  and  this  invaluable 
creature  I  was  going  to  lend  you  : — won't  now,  d — d  if  I  do  ! " 

"  Humph !  " 

"  Hold  jaw  !  When  I'm  gone,  Jacobina  will  have  no  one  to 
feed  her.  She'll  feed  herself — will  go  to  every  larder,  every 
house  in  the  place — yours  best  larder,  best  house — will  come 
to  you  oftenest.  If  your  wife  attempts  to  drive  her  away, 
scratch  her  eyes  out ;  if  you  disturb  her,  serve  you  worse  than 
Joe  Webster's  little  boy  : — wanted  to  prevent  this — won't  now, 
d— d  if  I  do  !  " 

"  But,  corporal,  how  would  it  mend  the  matter  to  take  the 
devil  indoors  ? " 

"  Devil  !  don't  call  names.  Did  not  I  tell  you,  only  one  Ja- 
cobina does  not  hurt  is  her  master? — make  you  her  master: 
now  d'ye  see  ? " 

"  It's  very  hard,"  said  Peter  grumblingly,  "  that  the  only  way 
I  can  defend  myself  from  this  villainous  creature  is  to  take 
her  into  my  house." 

"  Villainous  !  You  ought  to  be  proud  of  her  affection.  She 
returns  good  for  evil — she  always  loved  you  ;  see  how  she  rubs 
herself  against  you — and  that's  the  reason  why  I  selected  you 
from  the  whole  village,  to  take  care  of  her  ;  but  you  at  once 
injure  yourself  and  refuse  to  do  your  friend  a  service.  How- 
somever,  you  know  I  shall  be  with  young  squire,  and  he'll  be 
master  here  one  of  these  days,  and  I  shall  have  an  influence 
over  him — you'll  see — you'll  see.  Look  that  there's  not  an- 
other Spotted  Dog  set  up — augh  !  bother  !  " 


102  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"  But  what  would  my  wife  say,  if  I  took  the  cat  ?  She  can't 
abide  its  name." 

"  Let  me  alone  to  talk  to  your  wife.  What  would  she 
say  if  I  bring  her  from  Lunnun  town  a  fine  silk  gown,  or  a 
neat  shawl  with  a  blue  border — blue  becomes  her,  or  a  tay- 
chest — that  will  do  for  you  both,  and  would  set  off  the  little 
back  parlor  ?  Mahogany  tay-chest,  inlaid  at  top — initials 
in  silver,  J.  B.  to  D.  and  P.  D.;  two  boxes  for  tay,  and  a  bowl  for 
sugar  in  the  middle.  Ah!  ah!  Love  me,  love  my  cat !  When 
was  Jacob  Bunting  ungrateful — augh  !" 

"Well,  well!  will  you  talk  to  Dorothy  about  it  ?" 

"  I  shall  have  your  consent,  then  ?  Thanks  my  dear,  dear 
Peter ;  'pon  my  soul  you're  a  fine  fellow  !  you  see,  you're 
great  man  of  the  parish.  If  you  protect  her,  none  dare  in  jure  ; 
if  you  scout  her,  all  set  upon  her.  For,  as  you  said,  or  rather 
sung,  t'other  Sunday — capital  voice  you  were  in,  too  : 

'  The  mighty  tyrants  without  cause, 
Conspire  her  blood  to  shed  J ' ' 

"  I  did  not  think  you  had  so  good  a  memory,  corporal,"  said 
Peter,  smiling  ;  the  cat  was  now  curling  itself  up  in  his  lap  : 
"after  all,  Jacobina — what  a  deuce  of  a  name  ! — seems  gentle 
enough." 

"  Gentle  as  a  lamb,  soft  as  butter,  kind  as  cream,  and  such  a 
mouser ! " 

"  But  I  don't  think  Dorothy—" 

"  I'll  settle  Dorothy." 

"Well,  when  will  you  look  up  ?" 

"  Come  and  take  a  dish  of  tay  with  you  in  half  an  hour  ;  you 
want  a  new  tay-chest ;  something  new  and  genteel." 

"  I  think  we  do,"  said  Peter,  rising  and  gently  depositing  the 
cat  on  the  ground. 

"  Aha  !  we'll  see  to  it !  we'll  see !  Good-by  for  the  present — 
in  half  an  hour  be  with  you  ! " 

The  corporal,  left  alone  with  Jacobina,  eyed  her  intently,  and 
burst  into  the  following  pathetic  address  : 

"Well,  Jacobina  !  you  little  know  the  pains  I  takes  to  serve 
you — the  lies  I  tells  for  you — endangered  my  precious  soul 
for  your  sake,  you  jade  !  Ah  !  may  well  rub  your  sides  against 
me.  Jacobina !  Jacobina  !  you  be  the  only  thing  in  the 
world  that  cares  a  button  for  me.  I  have  neither  kith  nor  kin. 
You  are  daughter,  friend,  wife  to  me  :  if  anything  happened 
to  you,  I  should  not  have  the  heart  to  love  anything  else.  And 
l*>dy  o'  me,  but  you  be  as  kind  as  any  mistress,  and  much 


EUGENE     ARAM.  103 

more  tractable  than  any  wife  ;  but  the  world  gives  you  a  bad 
name,  Jacobina.  Why  ?  Is  it  that  you  do  worse  than  the 
world  do  ?  You  has  no  morality  in  you,  Jacobina  ;  well,  but 
has  the  world  ?  No  !  But  it  has  humbug — you  have  no  hum- 
bug, Jacobina.  On  the  faith  of  a  man,  Jacobina,  you  be  better 
than  the  world  ! — baugh  !  You  takes  care  of  your  own  inter- 
est, but  you  takes  care  of  your  master's  too  !  You  loves  me  as 
well  as  yourself.  Few  cats  can  say  the  same,  Jacobina  !  and 
no  gossip  that  flings  a  stone  at  your  pretty  brindled  skin  can 
say  half  as  much.  We  must  not  forget  your  kittens,  Jacobina  ; 
you  have  four  left — they  must  be  provided  for.  Why  not  a 
cat's  children  as  well  as  a  courtier's  ;  I  have  got  you  a  comforta- 
ble home,  Jacobina  ;  take  care  of  yourself,  and  don't  fall  in  love 
with  every  torn  cat  in  the  place.  Be  sober,  and  lead  a  single 
life  till  my  return.  Come,  Jacobina,  we  will  lock  up  the  house 
and  go  and  see  the  quarters  I  have  provided  for  you. 
Heigho  !  " 

As  he  finished  his  harangue,  the  corporal  locked  the  door 
of  his  cottage,  and,  Jacobina  trotting  by  his  side,  he  stalked 
with  his  usual  stateliness  to  The  Spotted  Dog. 

Dame  Dorothy  Dealtry  received  him  with  a  clouded  brow  ; 
but  the  man  of  the  world  knew  whom  he  had  to  deal  with.  On 
Wednesday  morning  Jacobina  was  inducted  into  the  comforts 
of  the  hearth  of  mine  host ;  and  her  four  little  kittens  mewed 
hard  by,  from  the  sinecure  ot  a  basket  lined  with  flannel. 

Reader.  Here  is  wisdom  in  this  chapter  :  it  is  not  every 
man  who  knows  how  to  dispose  of  his  cat. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A    STRANGE  HABIT. — WALTER'S  INTERVIEW  WITH  MADELINE. — 
HER     GENEROUS     AND      CONFIDING     DISPOSITION. — WALTER'S 

ANGER. THE      PARTING      MEAL. — CONVERSATION      BETWEEN 

THE    UNCLE     AND     NEPHEW. — WALTER     ALONE. — SLEEP     THE 
BLESSING    OF    THE    YOUNG. 

"  Fall.  Out,  out,  unworthy  to  speak  where  he  breatheth, 

etc. 

Punt.  Well  now,  my  whole  venture  is  forth,  I  will  resolve  to  depart." 
— BEN  JONSON  :  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humor. 

IT  was  now  the  eve  before  Walter's  departure,  and  on  re- 
turning home  from  a  farewell  walk  among  his  favorite  haunts, 
he  found  Aram,  whose  visit  had  been  made  during  Walter's 


104  EUGENE     ARAM. 

absence,  now  standing  on  the  threshold  of  the  door,  and  taking 
leave  of  Madeline  and  her  father.  Aram  and  Walter  had  only 
met  twice  before  since  the  interview  we  recorded,  and  each 
time  Walter  had  taken  care  that  the  meeting  should  be  but  of 
short  duration.  In  these  brief  encounters  Aram's  manner  had 
been  even  more  gentle  than  heretofore  ;  that  of  Walter's  more 
cold  and  distant.  And  now,  as  they  thus  unexpectedly  met  at 
the  door,  Aram,  looking  at  him  earnestly,  said  : 

"  Farewell,  sir  !  You  are  to  leave  us  for  some  time.  I  hear. 
Heaven  speed  you  !  "  Then  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  "Will 
you  take  my  hand,  now,  in  parting  ? " 

As  he  said,  he  put  forth  his  hand, — it  was  the  left. 

"  Let  it  be  the  right  hand,"  observed  the  elder  Lester,  smil- 
ing :  "it  is  a  luckier  omen." 

"I  think  not,"  said  Aram  dryly.  And  Walter  noted  that  he 
had  never  remembered  him  to  give  his  right  hand  to  any  one, 
even  to  Madeline  :  the  peculiarity  of  this  habit  might,  how- 
ever, arise  from  an  awkward  early  habit ;  it  was  certainly 
scarce  worth  observing,  and  Walter  had  already  coldly 
touched  the  hand  extended  to  him  when  Lester  said  care- 
lessly : 

"Is  there  any  superstition  that  makes  you  think,  as  some  of 
the  ancients  did,  the  left  hand  luckier  than  the  right?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Aram  ;  "  a  superstition.     Adieu." 

The  student  departed  ;  Madeline  slowly  walked  up  one  of 
the  garden  alleys,  and  thither  Walter,  after  whispering  to  his 
uncle,  followed  her. 

There  is  something  in  those  bitter  feelings  which  are  the  off- 
spring of  disappointed  love  ;  something  in  the  intolerable  an- 
guish of  well-founded  jealousy,  that,  when  the  first  shock  is 
over,  often  hardens,  and  perhaps  elevates,  the  character.  The 
sterner  powers  that  we  arouse  within  us  to  combat  a  passion 
that  can  no  longer  be  worthily  indulged,  are  never  afterwards 
wholly  allayed.  Like  the  allies  which  a  nation  summons  to  its 
bosom  to  defend  it  from  its  foes,  they  expel  the  enemy  only  to 
find  a  settlement  for  themselves.  The  mind  of  every  man  who 
conquers  an  unfortunate  attachment  becomes  stronger  than  be- 
fore ;  it  may  be  for  evil,  it  may  be  for  good,  but  the  capacities 
for  either  are  more  vigorous  and  collected. 

The  last  few  weeks  had  done  more  for  Walter's  character 
than  years  of  ordinary,  even  of  happy,  emotion  might  have  ef- 
fected. He  had  passed  from  youth  to  manhood,  and  with  the 
sadness  had  acquired  also  something  of  the  dignity  of  experi- 
ence. Not  that  we  would  say  that  he  had  subdued  his  love, 


EUGENE     AkAM.  id$ 

but  he  had  made  the  first  step  towards  it  ;  he  had  resolved  that 
at  all  hazards  it  should  be  subdued. 

As  he  now  joined  Madeline,  and  she  perceived  him  by  her 
side,  her  embarrassment  was  more  evident  than  his.  She 
feared  some  avowal,  and,  from  his  temper,  perhaps  some 
violence  on  his  part.  However,  she  was  the  first  to  speak ; 
women  in  such  cases  always  are. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  evening,"  said  she,  "and  the  sun  set  in 
promise  of  a  fine  day  for  your  journey  to-morrow." 

Walter  walked  on  silently ;  his  heart  was  full.  "  Madeline," 
he  said  at  length,  "  dear  Madeline,  give  me  your  hand.  Nay, 
do  not  fear  me  ;  I  know  what  you  think,  and  you  are  right : 
I  love — I  still  love  you  !  but  I  know  well  that  I  can  have  no 
hope  in  making  this  confession  ;  and  when  I  ask  you  for  your 
hand,  Madeline,  it  is  only  to  convince  you  that  I  have  no  suit 
to  press  ;  had  I,  I  would  not  dare  to  touch  that  hand." 

Madeline,  wondering  and  embarrassed,  gave  him  her  hand  ; 
he  held  it  for  a  moment  with  a  trembling  clasp,  pressed  it  to 
his  lips,  and  then  resigned  it. 

"Yes,  Madeline,  my  cousin,  my  sweet  cousin,  I  have  loved 
you  deeply,  but  silently,  long  before  my  heart  could  unravel 
the  mystery  of  the  feelings  with  which  it  glowed.  But  this — 
all  this — it  were  now  idle  to  repeat.  I  know  that  the  heart 
whose  possession  would  have  made  my  whole  life  a  dream,  a 
transport,  is  given  to  another.  I  have  not  sought  you  now, 
Madeline,  to  repine  at  this,  or  to  vex  you  by  the  tale  of  any 
suffering  I  may  endure  ;  I  am  come  only  to  give  you  the 
parting  wishes,  the  parting  blessing,  of  one  who,  wherever  he 
goes,  or  whatever  befall  him,  will  always  think  of  you  as  the 
brightest  and  loveliest  of  human  beings.  May  you  be  happy, 
yes,  even  with  another  !  " 

"Oh,  Walter  !"  said  Madeline,  affected  to  tears,  "  if  I  ever 
encouraged — if  I  ever  led  you  to  hope  for  more  than  the  warm, 
the  sisterly  affection  I  bear  you,  how  bitterly  I  should  reproach 
myself  ! " 

"  You  never  did,  dear  Madeline  ;  I  asked  for  no  inducement 
to  love  you, — I  never  dreamed  of  seeking  a  motive  or  inquiring 
if  I  had  cause  to  hope.  But  as  I  am  now  about  to  quit  you, 
and  as  you  confess  you  feel  for  me  a  sister's  affection,  will  you 
give  me  leave  to  speak  to  you  as  a  brother  might  ?" 

Madeline  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  frank  cordiality. 
"Yes!"  said  she,  "speak!" 

"Then,"  said  Walter,  turning  away  his  head  in  a  spirit 
of  delicacy  that  did  him  honor,  "is  it  yet  all  too  late 


Io6  EUGENE      ARAM. 

for  me  to  say  one  word  of  caution  that  relates  to — Eugene 
Aram  ?  " 

"  Of  caution  !  you  alarm  me,  Walter  :  speak,  has  aught 
happened  to  him  ?  I  saw  him  as  lately  as  yourself.  Does 
aught  threaten  him  ?  Speak,  I  implore  you, — quick  !  " 

"  I  know  of  no  danger  to  him!"  replied  Walter,  stung  to 
perceive  the  breathless  anxiety  with  which  Madeline  spoke  ; 
"  but  pause,  my  cousin,  may  there  be  no  danger  to  you  from 
this  man  ? " 

"  Walter  !  " 

"  I  grant  him  wise,  learned,  gentle, — nay,  more  than  all, 
bearing  about  him  a  spell,  a  fascination,  by  which  he  softens,  or 
awes  at  will,  and  which  even  I  cannot  resist.  But  yet  his  ab- 
stracted mood,  his  gloomy  life,  certain  words  that  have  broken 
from  him  unawares, — certain  tell-tale  emotions  which  words  of 
mine,  heedlessly  said,  have  fiercely  aroused,  all  united  inspire 
me — shall  I  say  it  ? — with  fear  and  distrust.  I  cannot  think 
him  altogether  the  calm  and  pure  being  he  appears.  Madeline, 
I  have  asked  myself  again  and  again,  is  this  suspicion  the  effect 
of  jealousy  ?  do  I  scan  his  bearing  with  the  jaundiced  eye  of 
disappointed  rivalship  ?  And  I  have  satisfied  my  conscience 
that  my  judgment  is  not  thus  biassed.  Stay !  listen  yet  a  little 
while  !  You  have  a  high,  a  thoughtful  mind.  Exert  it  now. 
Consider,  your  whole  happiness  rests  on  one  step  !  Pause,  ex- 
amine, compare  !  Remember,  you  have  not  of  Aram,  as  of 
those  you  have  hitherto  mixed  with,  the  eye-witness  of  a  life  ! 
You  can  know  but  little  of  his  real  temper,  his  secret  qualities  ; 
still  less  of  the  tenor  of  his  former  existence.  I  only  ask  of  you 
for  your  own  sake,  for  my  sake,  your  sister's  sake,  and  your 
good  father's,  not  to  judge  too  rashly  !  Love  him,  if  you  will, 
but  observe  him  !  " 

"  Haye  you  done  ?  "  said  Madeline,  who  had  hitherto  with 
difficulty  contained  herself  ;  "  then  hear  me.  Was  it  I — was  it 
Madeline  Lester  whom  you  asked  to  play  the  watch,  to  enact  the 
spy  upon  the  man  whom  she  exults  in  loving?  Was  it  not 
enough  that^w/  should  descend  to  mark  down  each  incautious 
look — to  chronicle  every  heedless  word — to  draw  dark  de- 
ductions from  the  unsuspecting  confidence  of  my  father's 
friend — to  lie  in  wait — to  hang  with  a  foe's  malignity  upon  the 
unbendings  of  familiar  intercourse — to  extort  anger  from 
gentleness  itself,  that  you  might  wrest  the  anger  into  crime ! 
Shame,  shame  upon  you  for  the  meanness  !  And  must  you  also 
suppose  that  I,  to  whose  trust  he  has  given  his  noble  heart,  will 
receive  it  only  to  play  the  eavesdropper  to  its  secrets  ?  Away  !  " 


EUGENE     ARAM.  IQj 

The  generous  blood  crimsoned  the  cheek  and  brow  of  this 
high-spirited  girl  as  she  uttered  her  galling  reproof  :  her  eyes 
sparkled,  her  lip  quivered,  fier  whole  frame  seemed  to  have 
grown  larger  with  the  majesty  of  indignant  love. 

"Cruel,  unjust,  ungrateful!"  ejaculated  Walter,  pale  with 
rage,  and  trembling  under  the  conflict  of  his  roused  and 
wounded  feelings.  "Is  it  thus  you  answer  the  warning  of  too 
disinterested  and  self-forgetful  a  love  ?  " 

"  Love  !  "  exclaimed  Madeline.  "  Grant  me  patience  !  Love ! 
It  was  but  now  I  thought  myself  honored  by  the  affection  you 
said  you  bore  me.  At  this  instant,  I  blush  to  have  called  forth 
a  single  sentiment  in  one  who  knows  so  little  what  love  is  ! 
Love  ! — methought  that  word  denoted  all  that  was  high  and 
noble  in  human  nature — confidence,  hope,  devotion,  sacrifice 
of  all  thought  of  self  !  but  you  would  make  it  the  type  and 
concentration  of  all  that  lowers  and  debases ! — suspicion — • 
cavil — fear — selfishness  in  all  its  shapes  !  Out  on  you  ! — love!'* 

"  Enough,  enough  !  Say  no  more,  Madeline,  say  no  more. 
We  part  not  as  1  had  hoped  ;  but  be  it  so.  You  are  changed 
indeed,  if  your  conscience  smite  you  not  hereafter  for  this  in- 
justice. Farewell,  and  may  you  never  regret,  not  only  the 
heart  you  have  rejected,  but  the  friendship  you  have  belied." 
With  these  words,  and  choked  by  his  emotion,  Walter  hastily 
strode  away. 

He  hurried  into  the  house,  and  into  a  little  room  adjoining 
the  chamber  in  which  he  slept,  and  which  had  been  also  ap- 
propriated solely  to  his  use.  It  was  now  spread  with  boxes 
and  trunks,  some  half-packed,  some  corded,  and  inscribed  with 
the  address  to  which  they  were  to  be  sent  in  London.  All 
these  mute  tokens  of  his  approaching  departure  struck  upon 
his  excited  feelings  with  a  suddenness  that  overpowered  him. 

"And  it  is  thus — thus,"  said  he,  aloud,  "that  I  am  to  leave, 
for  the  first  time,  my  childhood's  home  !  " 

He  threw  himself  on  his  chair,  and,  covering  his  face  with 
his  hands,  burst,  fairly  subdued  and  unmanned,  into  a  paroxysm 
of  tears. 

When  this  emotion  was  over,  he  felt  as  if  his  love  for  Made- 
line had  also  disappeared  ;  a  sore  and  insulted  feeling  was  all  that 
her  image  now  recalled  to  him.  This  idea  gave  him  some  con- 
solation. "  Thank  Heaven  !"  he  muttered,  "thank  Heaven, 
I  am  cured  at  last !" 

The  thanksgiving  was  scarcely  over,  before  the  door  opened 
softly,  and  Ellinor,  not  perceiving  him  where  he  sat,  entered 
the  room,  and  laid  on  the  table  a  purse  which  she  had  long 


I08  EUGENE      ARAM. 

promised  to  knit  him,  and  which  seemed   now   designed  as   a 
parting  gift. 

She  sighed  heavily  as  she  laid  it  down,  and  he  observed  that 
her  eyes  seemed  red  as  with  weeping. 

He  did  not  move,  and  Ellinor  left  the  room  without  discover- 
ing him  ;  but  he  remained  there  till  dark,  musing  on  her  appari- 
tion ;  and  before  he  went  downstairs  he  took  up  the  little  purse, 
kissed  it,  and  put  it  carefully  into  his  bosom. 

He  sat  next  to  Ellinor  at  supper  that  evening,  and,  though 
he  did  not  say  much,  his  last  words  were  more  to  her  than 
words  had  ever  been  before.  When  he  took  leave  of  her  for  the 
night,  he  whispered  as  he  kissed  her  cheek,  "God  bless  you, 
dearest  Ellinor !  and  till  I  return  take  care  of  yourself,  for  the 
sake  of  one  who  loves  you  now,  better  than  anything  on  earth." 

Lester  had  just  left  the  room  to  write  some  letters  for  Walter ; 
and  Madeline,  who  had  hitherto  sat  absorbed  and  silent  by  the 
window,  approached  Walter,  and  offered  him  her  hand. 

"  Forgive  me,  my  dear  cousin,"  she  said,  in  her  softest  voice. 
"  I  feel  that  I  was  hasty,  and  to  blame.  Believe  me,  I  am 
now  at  last  grateful,  warmly  grateful,  for  the  kindness  of  your 
motives." 

"  Not  so,"  said  Walter  bitterly ;  "  the  advice  of  a  friend  is 
only  meanness." 

"  Come,  come,  forgive  me  ;  pray  do  not  let  us  part  unkindly. 
When  did  we  ever  quarrel  before  ?  I  was  wrong,  grievously 
wrong — I  will  perform  any  penance  you  may  enjoin." 

"  Agreed,  them  :  follow  my  admonitions." 

"Ah!  anything  else,"  said  Madeline  gravely,  and  coloring 
deeply. 

Walter  said  no  more  ;  he  pressed  her  hand  lightly,  and 
turned  away. 

"  Is  all  forgiven ! "  said  she,  in  so  bewitching  a  tone,  and 
with  so  bright  a  smile,  that  Walter,  against  his  conscience, 
answered  "Yes." 

The  sisters  left  the  room  ;  I  know  not  which  of  the  two 
received  his  last  glance. 

Lester  now  returned  with  the  letters.  "  There  is  one  charge, 
my  dear  boy,"  said  he,  in  concluding  the  moral  injunctions 
and  experienced  suggestions  with  which  the  young  generally 
leave  trie  ancestral  home — "  there  is  one  charge  which  I  need 
not  commend  to  your  ingenuity  and  zeal.  You  know  my  strong 
conviction,  that  your  father,  my  poor  brother,  still  lives.  Is  it 
necessary  for  me  to  tell  you  to  exert  yourself  by  all  ways,  and 
in  all  means,  to  discover  some  clue  to  his  fate  ?  Who  knows," 


EUGENE     ARAM.  160 

added  Lester,  with  a  smile,  "but  that  you  may  find  him  a  rich 
nabob  !  I  confess  that  I  should  feel  but  little  surprise  if  it 
were  so  ;  but,  at  all  events,  you  will  make  every  possible  inquiry. 
I  have  written  down  in  this  paper  the  few  particulars  concern- 
ing him  which  I  have  been  enabled  to  glean  since  he  left  his 
home ;  the  places  where  he  was  last  seen,  the  false  names  he 
assumed,  etc.  I  shall  wait  with  great  anxiety  for  any  fuller 
success  to  your  researches." 

"  You  needed  not,  my  dear  uncle,"  said  Walter  seriously, 
"to  have  spoken  to  me  on  this  subject.  No  one,  not  even  your- 
self, can  have  felt  what  I  have — can  have  cherished  the  same 
anxiety,  nursed  the  same  hope,  indulged  the  same  conjecture. 
I  have  not,  it  is  true,  often  of  late  years  spoken  to  you  on  a  matter 
so  near  to  us  both  ;  but  I  have  spent  whole  hours  in  guesses  at 
my  father's  fate,  and  in  dreams  that  for  me  was  reserved  the 
proud  task  to  discover  it.  I  will  not  say,  indeed,  that  it  makes 
at  this  moment  the  chief  motive  for  my  desire  to  travel,  but  in 
travel  it  will  become  my  chief  object.  Perhaps  I  may  find 
him  not  only  rich — that,  for  my  part,  is  but  a  minor  wish — but 
sobered,  and  reformed  from  the  errors  and  wildness  of  his 
earlier  manhood.  Oh,  what  should  be  his  gratitude  to  you  for 
all  the  care  with  which  you  have  supplied  to  the  forsaken  child 
the  father's  place  ;  and  not  the  least,  that  you  have,  in  soften- 
ing the  colors  of  his  conduct,  taught  me  still  to  prize  and  seek 
for  a  father's  love  !  " 

"You  have  a  kind  heart,  Walter,"  said  the  good  old  man, 
pressing  his  nephew's  hand  ,  "and  that  has  more  than  repaid 
me  for  the  little  I  have  done  for  you  :  it  is  better  to  sow  a  good 
heart  with  kindness  than  a  field  with  corn,  for  the  heart's  har- 
vest is  perpetual." 

Many,  and  earnest,  that  night,  were  the  meditations  of  Walter 
Lester.  He  was  about  to  quit  the  home  in  which  youth  had 
been  passed — in  which  first  love  had  been  formed  and  blighted  : 
the  world  was  before  him  ;  but  there  was  something  more 
grave  than  pleasure — more  steady  than  enterprise — that  beck- 
oned him  to  its  paths.  The  deep  mystery  that  for  so  many 
years  had  hung  over  the  fate  of  his  parent  it  might  indeed  be  his 
lot  to  pierce  ;  and  with  a  common  waywardness  in  our  nature, 
the  restless  son  felt  his  interest  in  that  parent  the  livelier,  from 
the  very  circumstance  of  remembering  nothing  of  his  person. 
Affection  had  been  nursed  by  curiosity  and  imagination  ;  and 
the  bad  father  was  thus  more  fortunate  in  winning  the  heart 
of  the  son,  than  had  he,  perhaps  by  the  tenderness  of  years, 
deserved  that  affection. 


tl6  EUGENE     ARAM. 

Oppressed  and  feverish,  Walter  opened  the  lattice  of  his 
room,  and  looked  forth  on  the  night.  The  broad  harvest-moon 
was  in  the  heavens,  and  filled  the  air  as  with  a  softer  and  holier 
day.  At  a  distance  its  light  just  gave  the  dark  outline  of  Aram's 
house,  and  beneath  the  window  it  lay,  bright  and  steady  on  the 
green,  .still  churchyard,  that  adjoined  the  house.  The  air  and 
the  light  allayed  the  fitfulness  at  the  young  man's  heart,  but 
served  to  solemnize  the  project  and  desire  with  which  it  beat. 
Still  leaning  from  the  casement,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
tranquil  scene  below,  he  poured  forth  the  prayer,  that  to  his 
hands  might  the  discovery  of  his  lost  sire  be  granted.  The 
prayer  seemed  to  lift  the  oppression  from  his  breast ;  he  felt 
cheerful  and  relieved,  and  flinging  himself  on  his  bed,  soon  fell 
into  the  sound  and  healthful  sleep  of  youth.  And  oh  !  let 
Youth  cherish  that  happiest  of  earthly  boons  while  yet  it  is  at  its 
command  ;  for  there  cometh  the  day  to  all,  when  "  neither 
the  voice  of  the  lute  nor  the  birds"*  shall  bring  back  the 
sweet  slumbers  that  fell  on  their  young  eyes,  as  unbidden  as  the 
dews.  It  is  a  dark  epoch  in  a  man's  life  when  sleep  forsakes 
him  ;  when  he  tosses  to  and  fro,  and  thought  will  not  be  silenced  ; 
when  the  drug  and  draught  are  the  couriers  of  stupefaction, 
not  sleep  ;  when  the  down  pillow  is  as  a  knotted  log  ;  when  the 
eyelids  close  but  with  an  effort,  and  there  is  a  drag,  and  a  weight, 
and  a  dizziness  in  the  eyes  at  morn.  Desire,  and  grief,  and 
love,  these  are  the  young  man's  torments  ;  but  they  are  the 
creatures  of  time  :  time  removes  them  as  it  brings,  and  the 
vigils  we  keep,  "  while  the  evil  days  come  not,"  if  weary,  are 
brief  and  few.  But  memory,  and  care,  and  ambition,  and 
avarice,  these  are  demon-gods  that  defy  the  Time  that  fathered 
them.  The  worldlier  passions  are  the  growth  of  mature  years, 
and  their  grave  is  dug  but  in  our  own.  As  the  dark  spirits  in 
the  northern  tale,  that  watch  against  the  coming  of  one  of  a 
brighter  and  holier  race,  lest,  if  he  seize  them  unawares,  he  bind 
them  prisoners  in  his  chain,  they  keep  ward  at  night  over  the 
entrance  of  that  deep  cave — the  human  heart — and  scare  away 
the  angel  Sleep. 

*  "  Non  avium  citharaeque,"  etc. — HORAT. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  Ill 


BOOK    II. 


Afifyi  (T  avQpuwuv 

'AvapiQuaroi  Kpeuavrat. 

Toirro  <F  afid^avov  evpelv, 

'Ori  virv,  Kal  h  retevrp  ^iprarov  avdpl 

FIND.  O.  vii.  44. 

Innumerous,  o'er  their  human  prey, 
Grim  errors  hang  the  human  sorrow  ; 

Thro'  vapor  gleams  the  present  day, 
And  darkness  wraps  the  morrow. 

PARAPHRASE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  MARRIAGE  SETTLED. — LESTER'S  HOPES  AND  SCHEMES. — 
GAIETY  OF  TEMPER  A  GOOD  SPECULATION. — THE  TRUTH 
AND  FERVOR  OF  ARAM'S  LOVE. 

"Love  is  better  than  a  pair  of  spectacles,  to  make  everything  seem 
greater  which  is  seen  through  it." — SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  :  Arcadia. 

ARAM'S  affection  to  Madeline  having  now  been  formally  an- 
nounced to  Lester,  and  Madeline's  consent  having  been  some- 
what less  formally  obtained,  it  only  remained  to  fix  the  time 
for  their  wedding.  Though  Lester  forbore  to  question  Aram 
as  to  his  circumstances,  the  student  frankly  confessed,  that,  if 
not  affording  what  the  generality  of  persons  would  consider 
even  a  competence,  they  enabled  one  of  his  moderate  wants 
and  retired  life  (especially  in  the  remote  and  cheap  district  in 
which  they  lived),  to  dispense  with  all  fortune  in  a  wife,  who, 
like  Madeline,  was  equally  with  himself  enamoured  of  obscurity. 
The  good  Lester,  however,  proposed  to  bestow  upon  his  daugh- 
ter such  a  portion  as  might  allow  for  the  wants  of  an  increased 
family,  or  the  probable  contingencies  of  Fate.  For  though 
Fortune  may  often  slacken  her  wheel,  there  is  no  spot  in  which 
she  suffers  it  to  be  wholly  still. 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  September,  and  by  the  end  of 
the  ensuing  month  it  was  agreed  that  the  spousals  of  the  lovers 
should  be  held.  It  is  certain  that  Lester  felt  one  pang  for  his 
nephew  as  he  subscribed  to  this  proposal ;  but  he  consoled 
himself  with  recurring  to  a  hope  he  had  long  cherished,  viz., 


112  EUGENE     AkAM. 

that  Walter  would  return  home  not  only  cured  of  his  vain  at- 
tachment to  Madeline,  but  with  the  disposition  to  admit  the 
attractions  of  her  sister.  A  marriage  between  these  two  cousins 
had  for  years  been  his  favorite  project.  The  lively  and  ready 
temper  of  Ellinor,  her  household  turn,  her  merry  laugh,  a  win- 
ning playfulness  that  characterized  even  her  defects,  were  all 
more  after  Lester's  secret  heart  than  the  graver  and  higher 
nature  of  his  elder  daughter.  This  might  mainly  be  that  they 
were  traits  of  disposition  that  more  reminded  him  of  his  lost 
wife,  and  were,  therefore,  more  accordant  with  his  ideal  stand- 
ard of  perfection  ;  but  I  incline  also  to  believe  that  the  more 
persons  advance  in  years,  the  more,  even  if  of  staid  and  sober 
temper  themselves,  they  love  gaiety  and  elasticity  in  youth.  I 
have  often  pleased  myself  by  observing,  in  some  happy  family 
circle  embracing  all  ages,  that  it  is  the  liveliest  and  wildest 
child  that  charms  the  grandsire  the  most.  And  after  all  it  is, 
perhaps,  with  characters  as  with  books,  the  grave  and  thought- 
ful may  be  more  admired  than  the  light  and  cheerful,  but  they 
are  less  liked  ;  it  is  not  only  that  the  former,  being  of  a  more 
abstruse  and  recondite  nature,  find  fewer  persons  capable  of 
judging  of  their  merits,  but  also  that  the  great  object  of  the, 
majority  of  human  beings  is  to  be  amused,  and  that  they  nat- 
urally incline  to  love  those  the  best  who  amuse  them  most. 
And  to  so  great  a  practical  extent  is  this  preference  pushed, 
that  I  think  were  a  nice  observer  to  make  a  census  of  all  those 
who  have  received  legacies,  or  dropped  unexpectedly  into  for- 
tunes, he  would  find  that  where  one  grave  disposition  had  so 
benefited,  there  would  be  at  least  twenty  gay.  Perhaps,  how- 
ever, it  may  be  said  that  I  am,  here,  taking  the  cause  for  the 
effect ! 

But  to  return  from  our  speculative  disquisitions :  Lester, 
then,  who  though  he  had  so  slowly  discovered  his  nephew's 
passion  for  Madeline,  had  long  since  guessed  the  secret  of  Elli- 
nor's  affection  for  him,  looked  forward  with  a  hope  rather  san- 
guine than  anxious  to  the  ultimate  realization  of  his  cherished 
domestic  scheme.  And  he  pleased  himself  with  thinking  that 
when  all  soreness  would,  by  this  double  wedding,  be  banished 
from  Walter's  mind,  it  would  be  impossible  to  conceive  a 
family  group  more  united  or  more  happy. 

And  Ellinor  herself,  ever  since  the  parting  words  of  her 
cousin,  had  seemed,  so  far  from  being  inconsolable  for  his  ab- 
sence, more  bright  of  cheek  and  elastic  of  step  than  she  had 
been  for  months  before.  What  a  world  of  all  feelings  which 
forbid  despondence  lies  hoarded  in  the  hearts  of  the  young  J 


EUGENE     ARAM.  113 

As  one  fountain  is  filled  by  the  channels  that  exhaust  another, 
we  cherish  wisdom  at  the  expense  of  hope.  It  thus  happened, 
from  one  cause  or  another,  that  Walter's  absence  created  a  less 
cheerless  blank  in  the  family  circle  than  might  have  been  ex- 
pected ;  and  the  approaching  bridals  of  Madeline  and  her 
lover  naturally  diverted,  in  a  great  measure,  the  thoughts  of 
each,  and  engrossed  their  conversation. 

Whatever  might  be  Madeline's  infatuation  as  to  the  merits  of 
Aram,  one  merit,  the  greatest  of  all  in  the  eyes  of  a  woman 
who  loves,  he  at  least,  possessed.  Never  was  mistress  more 
burningly  and  deeply  loved  than  she  who,  for  the  first  time, 
awoke  the  long  slumbering  passions  in  the  heart  of  Eugene 
Aram.  Every  day  the  ardor  of  his  affections  seemed  to  in- 
crease. With  what  anxiety  he  watched  her  footsteps  !  with 
what  idolatry  he  hung  upon  her  words  !  with  what  unspeakable 
and  yearning  emotion  he  gazed  upon  the  changeful  eloquence 
of  her  cheek  !  Now  that  Walter  was  gone,  he  almost  took  up 
his  abode  at  the  manor-house.  He  came  thither  in  the  early 
morning,  and  rarely  returned  home  before  the  family  retired 
for  the  night ;  and  even  then,  when  all  was  hushed,  and  they 
believed  him  in  his  solitary  home,  he  lingered  for  hours  around 
the  house,  to  look  up  to  Madeline's  window,  charmed  to  the 
spot  which  held  the  intoxication  of  her  presence.  Madeline 
discovered  this  habit,  and  chid  it  ;  but  so  tenderly,  that  it  was 
not  cured.  And  still  at  times,  by  the  autumnal  moon,  she 
marked  from  her  window  his  dark  figure  gliding  among  the 
shadows  of  the  trees,  or  pausing  by  the  lowly  tombs  in  the  still 
churchyard — the  resting-place  of  hearts  that  once,  perhaps, 
beat  as  wildly  as  his  own. 

It  was  impossible  that  a  love  of  this  order,  and  from  one  so 
richly  gifted  as  Aram, — a  love  which  in  substance,  was  truth, 
and  yet  in  language  poetry,  could  fail  wholly  to  subdue  and 
enthral  a  girl  so  young,  so  romantic,  so  enthusiastic,  as  Made- 
line Lester.  How  intense  and  delicious  must  have  been  her 
sense  of  happiness!  In  the  pure  heart  of  a  girl  loving  for  the 
first  time,  love  is  far  more  ecstatic  than  in  man,  inasmuch  as  it 
is  unfevered  by  desire  ;  love,  then  and  there,  makes  the  only 
state  of  human  existence  which  is  at  once  capable  of  calmness 
and  transport  I 


114  EUGENE     ARAM. 


CHAPTER   II. 

A  FAVORABLE  SPECIMEN  OF    A  NOBLEMAN  AND  A  COURTIER. — A 
MAN  OF  SOME  FAULTS  AND  MANY  ACCOMPLISHMENTS. 

"  Titinius  Capito  is  to  rehearse.  He  is  a  man  of  an  excellent  disposition, 
and  to  be  numbered  among  the  chief  ornaments  of  his  age.  He  cultivates 
literature — he  loves  men  of  learning,  etc." — LORD  ORRERY'S  Pliny. 

ABOUT  this  time  the  Earl  of ,  the  great  nobleman  of 

the  district,  and  whose  residence  was  within  a  few  miles  of 
Grassdale,  came  down  to  pay  his  wonted  yearly  visit  to  his 
country  domains.  He  was  a  man  well  known  in  the  history  of 
the  times  ;  though,  for  various  reasons,  I  conceal  his  name  He 
was  a  courtier, — deep,  wily,  accomplished  ;  but  capable  of 
generous  sentiments  and  enlarged  views.  Though,  from  regard 
to  his  interests,  he  seized  and  lived  as  it  were  upon  the  fleeting 
spirit  of  the  day,  the  penetration  of  his  intellect  went  far  be- 
yond its  reach.  He  claims  the  merit  of  having  been  the  one, 
of  all  his  contemporaries  (Lord  Chesterfield  alone  excepted), 
who  most  clearly  saw,  and  most  distinctly  prophesied,  the  dark 
and  fearful  storm  that,  at  the  close  of  the  century,  burst 
over  France — visiting  indeed  the  sins  of  the  fathers  upon  the 
sons. 

From  the  small  circle  of  pompous  trifles  in  which  the 
dwellers  of  a  court  are  condemned  to  live,  and  which  he 
brightened  by  his  abilities  and  graced  by  his  accomplishments, 
the  sagacious  and  far-sighted  mind  of  Lord compre- 
hended the  vast  field  without,  usually  invisible  to  those  of  his 
habits  and  profession.  Men  who  the  best  know  the  little 
nucleus  which  is  called  the  world  are  often  the  most  ignorant 
of  mankind  ;  but  it  was  the  peculiar  attribute  of  this  noble- 
man, that  he  could  not  only  analyze  the  external  customs  of 
his  species,  but  also  penetrate  into  their  deeper  and  more 
hidden  interests. 

The  works  and  correspondence  he  has  left  behind  him, 
though  far  from  voluminous,  testify  a  consummate  knowledge 
of  the  varieties  of  human  nature.  The  refinement  of  his  taste 
appears  less  remarkable  than  the  vigor  of  his  understanding. 
It  might  be  that  he  knew  the  vices  of  men  better  than  their 
virtues  ;  yet  he  was  no  shallow  disbeliever  in  the  latter  :  he  read 
the  heart  too  accurately  not  to  know  that  it  is  guided  as  often 
by  its  affections  as  its  interests.  In  his  early  life  he  had  in- 
curred, not  without  truth,  the  charge  of  licentiousness  ;  but 


EUGENE     ARAM.  1 15 

even  in  pursuit  of  pleasure,  he  had  been  neither  weak  on  the 
one  hand,  nor  gross  on  the  other, — neither  the  headlong  dupe 
nor  the  callous  sensualist  ;  but  his  graces,  his  rank,  his  wealth, 
had  made  his  conquests  a  matter  of  too  easy  purchase  ;  and 
hence,  like  all  voluptuaries,  the  part  of  his  worldly  knowledge 
which  was  the  most  fallible  was  that  which  related  to  the  sex. 
He  judged  of  women  by  a  standard  too  distinct  from  that  by 
which  he  judged  of  men,  and  considered  those  foibles  peculiar 
to  the  sex,  which  in  reality  are  incident  to  human  nature 

His  natural  disposition  was  grave  and  reflective ;  and  though 
he  was  not  without  wit,  it  was  rarely  used.  He  lived,  neces- 
sarily, with  the  frivolous  and  the  ostentatious  ;  yet  ostentation  and 
frivolity  were  charges  never  brought  against  himself.  As  a 
diplomatist  and  a  statesman,  he  was  of  the  old  and  erroneous 
school  of  intriguers  ;  but  his  favorite  policy  was  the  science  of 
conciliation.  He  was  one  who  would  so  far  have  suited  the 
present  age,  that  no  man  could  have  better  steered  a  nation 
from  the  chances  of  war  ;  James  the  First  could  not  have  been 
inspired  with  a  greater  affection  for  peace  ;  but  the  peer's 
dexterity  would  have  made  that  peace  as  honorable  as  the 
king's  weakness  made  it  degraded.  Ambitious  to  a  certain 
extent,  but  neither  grasping  or  mean,  he  never  obtained  for  his 
genius  the  full  and  extensive  field  it  probably  deserved.  He 
loved  a  happy  life  above  all  things  ;  and  he  knew  that,  while 
activity  is  the  spirit,  fatigue  is  the  bane,  of  happiness. 

In  his  day  he  enjoyed  a  large  share  of  that  public  attention 
which  generally  bequeaths  fame  ;  yet,  from  several  causes  (of 
which  his  own  moderation  is  not  the  least),  his  present  reputa- 
tion is  infinitely  less  great  than  the  opinions  of  his  most  dis- 
tinguished contemporaries  foreboded. 

It  is  a  more  difficult  matter  for  men  of  high  rank  to  become 
illustrious  to  posterity,  than  for  persons  in  a  sterner  and  more 
wholesome  walk  of  life.  Even  the  greatest  among  the  dis- 
tinguished men  of  the  patrician  order  suffer  in  the  eyes  of  the 
after-age  for  the  very  qualities,  chiefly  dazzling  defects  or 
brilliant  eccentricities,  which  made  them  most  popularly  re- 
markable in  their  day.  Men  forgive  Burns  his  amours  and  his 
revellings,  with  greater  ease  than  they  will  forgive  Bolingbroke 
and  Byron  for  the  same  offences. 

Our  earl  was  fond  of  the  society  of  literary  men  ;  he  himself 
was  well,  perhaps  even  deeply,  read.  Certainly  his  intellectual 
acquisitions  were  more  profound  than  they  have  been  generally 
esteemed,  though,  with  the  common  subtlety  of  a  ready  genius, 
he  could  make  the  quick  adaptation  of  a  timely  fact,  acquired 


Il6  EUGENE     ARAM. 

for  the  occasion,  appear  the  rich  overflowing  of  a  copious 
erudition.  He  was  a  man  who  instantly  perceived,  and 
liberally  acknowledged,. the  merits  of  others.  No  connoisseur 
had  a  more  felicitous  knowledge  of  the  arts,  or  was  more  just 
in  the  general  objects  of  his  patronage.  In  short,  what  with 
all  his  advantages,  he  was  one  whom  an  aristocracy  may  boast 
of,  though  a  people  may  forget ;  and,  if  not  a  great  man,  was 
at  least  a  most  remarkable  lord. 

The  Earl  of  ,  in  his  last  visit  to  his  estates,  had  not 

forgotten  to  seek  out  the  eminent  scholar  who  shed  an  honor 
upon  his  neighborhood  ;  he  had  been  greatly  struck  with  the 
bearing,  and  conversation  of  Aram  ;  and,  with  the  usual  felicity 
with  which  the  accomplished  earl  adapted  his  nature  to  those 
with  whom  he  was  thrown,  he  had  succeeded  in  ingratiating  him- 
self with  Aram  in  return.  He  could  not,  indeed,  persuade  the 
haughty  and  solitary  student  to  visit  him  at  the  castle  ;  but 
the  earl  did  not  disdain  to  seek  any  one  from  whom  he  could 
obtain  instruction,  and  he  had  twice  or  thrice  voluntarily  en- 
countered Aram,  and  effectually  drawn  him  from  his  reserve. 
The  earl  now  heard  with  some  pleasure,  and  more  surprise, 
that  the  austere  recluse  was  about  to  be  married  to  the  beauty 
of  the  county,  and  he  resolved  to  seize  the  first  occasion  to 
call  at  the  manor-house  to  offer  his  compliments  and  congratu- 
lations to  its  inmates. 

Sensible  men  of  rank  who,  having  enjoyed  their  dignity  from 
their  birth,  may  reasonably  be  expected  to  grow  occasionally 
tired  of  it,  often  like  mixing  with  those)  the  most  who  are  the 
least  dazzled  by  the  condescension  ;  I  do  not  mean  to  say,  with 
the  vulgar  parvenus  who  mistake  rudeness  for  independence- 
no  man  forgets  respect  to  another  who  knows  the  value  of  re- 
spect to  himself  ;  but  the  respect  should  be  paid  easily  ;  it  is  not 
every  Grand  Seigneur  who,  like  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  is  only 
pleased  when  he  puts  those  he  addresses  out  of  countenance. 

There  was,  therefore,  much  in  the  simplicity  of  Lester's 
manners,  and  those  of  his  nieces,  which  rendered  the  family  at 

the  manor-house  especial  favorites  with  Lord ;  and  the 

wealthier  but  less  honored  squirearchs  of  the  county,  stiff  in 
awkward  pride,  and  bustling  with  yet  more  awkward  venera- 
tion, heard  with  astonishment  and  anger  of  the  numerous  visits 
which  his  lordship,  in  his  brief  sojourn  at  the  castle,  always 
contrived  to  pay  to  the  Lesters,  and  the  constant  invitations 
which  they  received  to  his  most  familiar  festivities. 

Lord was  no  sportsman  ;  and  one  morning,  when  all  his 

guests  were  engaged  among  the  stubbles  of  September,  he 


EUGENE     ARAM.  117 

mounted  his  quiet  palfrey,  and  gladly  took  his  way  to  the 
manor-house. 

It  was  towards  the  latter  end  of  the  month,  and  one  of  the 
earliest  of  the  autumnal  fogs  hung  thinly  over  the  landscape. 
As  the  earl  wound  along  the  sides  of  the  hill  on  which  his 
castle  was  built,  the  scene  on  which  he  gazed  below  received 
from  the  gray  mists  capriciously  hovering  over  it  a  dim  and 
melancholy  wildness.  A  broader  and  whiter  vapor,  that  streaked 
the  lower  part  of  the  valley,  betrayed  the  course  of  the  rivulet ; 
and  beyond,  to  the  left,  rose,  wan  and  spectral,  the  spire  of  the 
little  church  adjoining  Lester's  abode.  As  the  horseman's  eye 
wandered  to  this  spot,  the  sun  suddenly  broke  forth,  and  lit  up 
as  by  enchantment  the  quiet  and  lovely  hamlet,  embedded  as 
it  were  beneath, — the  cottages,  with  their  gay  gardens  and  jas- 
mined  porches — the  streamlet  half  in  mist,  half  in  light,  while 
here  and  there  columns  of  vapor  rose  above  its  surface  like  the 
chariots  of  the  water  genii,  and  broke  into  a  thousand  hues  be- 
neath the  smiles  of  the  unexpected  sun  ;  but  far  to  the  right, 
the  mists  around  it  yet  unbroken,  and  the  outline  of  its  form 
only  visible,  rose  the  lone  house  of  the  student,  as  if  there  the 
sadder  spirits  of  the  air  yet  rallied  their  broken  armament  of 
mist  and  shadow. 

The  earl  was  not  a  man  peculiarly  alive  to  scenery,  but  he 
now  involuntarily  checked  his  horse,  and  gazed  for  a  few 
moments  on  the  beautiful  and  singular  aspect  which  the  land- 
scape had  so  suddenly  assumed.  As  he  so  gazed,  he  observed 
in  a  field  at  some  little  distance  three  or  four  persons  gathered 
round  a  bank,  and  among  them  he  thought  he  recognized  the 
comely  form  of  Rowland  Lester.  A  second  inspection  con- 
vinced him  that  he  was  right  in  his  conjecture,  and,  turning 
from  the  road  through  a  gap  in  the  hedge,  he  made  towards 
the  group  in  question.  He  had  not  proceeded  far,  before  he 
saw  that  the  remainder  of  the  party  was  composed  of  Lester's 
daughters,  the  lover  of  the  elder,  and  a  fourth,  whom  he  recog- 
nized as  a  celebrated  French  botanist,  who  had  lately  arrived 
in  England,  and  who  was  now  making  an  amateur  excursion 
throughout  the  more  attractive  districts  of  the  island. 

The  earl  guessed  rightly  that  Monsieur  de  N had  not 

neglected  to  apply  to  Aram  for  assistance  in  a  pursuit  which 
the  latter  was  known  to  have  cultivated  with  such  success,  and 
that  he  had  been  conducted  hither  as  to  a  place  affording  some 
specimen  or  another  not  unworthy  of  research.  He  now,  giv- 
ing his  horse  to  his  groom,  joined  the  group. 


Ho*  EUGENE     ARAM. 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHEREIN  THE  EARL  AND  THE  STUDENT  CONVERSE  ON  GRAVE 
BUT  DELIGHTFUL  MATTERS. — THE  STUDENT'S  NOTION  OF  THE 
ONLY  EARTHLY  HAPPINESS. 

"  Aram.  If  the  witch  Hope  forbids  us  to  be  wise, 
Yet  when  I  turn  to  thtse — Woe's  ouly  fi lends,  [Pointing  to  his  books. 
And  with  thtir  weird  and  eloquent  voices  calm 
The  stir  and  B^iiel  of  lie  woild  within, 
I  can  but  dream  that  my  vex'd  years  al  last 
Shall  find  the  quiet  of  a  hermii's  cell — 
And,  neighboring  not  this  worn  and  jaded  world, 
Beneath  the  lambent  eyes  of  the  loved  stars, 
And,  with  the  hollow  rocks  and  spairy  caves, 
The  tides,  and  all  the  many-music'd  winds, 
My  oracles  and  co-males — watch  my  life 
Glide  down  the  Stream  of  Knowledge,  and  behold 
Its  waters  with  a  musing  stillness  glass 
The  thousand  hues  of  Nature  and  of  Heaven." 

— from  "  Eugene  Aram"  a  MS.  Tragedy. 

THE  earl  continued  with  the  party  he  had  joined  ;  and  when 
their  occupation  was  concluded,  and  they  turned  homeward,  he 
accepted  the  squire's  frank  invitation  to  partake  of  some  re- 
freshment at  the  manor-house.  It  so  chanced,  or  perhaps  the 
earl  so  contrived  it,  that  Aram  and  himself,  in  their  way  to  the 
village,  lingered  a  little  behind  the  rest,  and  that  their  conver- 
sation was  thus,  for  a  few  minutes,  not  altogether  general. 

"  Is  it  I,  Mr.  Aram,"  said  the  earl,  smiling,  "  or  is  it  Fate 
that  has  made  you  a  convert  ?  The  last  time  we  sagely  and 
quietly  conferred  together  you  contended  that  the  more  the  circle 
of  existence  was  contracted,  the  more  we  clung  to  a  state  of  pure 
and  self-dependent  intellect,  the  greater  our  chance  of  happiness. 
Thus  you  denied  that  we  were  rendered  happier  by  our  luxuries, 
by  our  ambition,  or  by  our  affections.  Love  and  its  ties  were 
banished  from  your  solitary  Utopia  ;  and  you  asserted  that  th 
true  wisdom  of  life  lay  solely  in  the  cultivation — not  of  our 
feelings,  but  our  faculties.  You  know,  I  held  a  different  doc- 
trine ;  and  it  is  with  the  natural  triumph  of  a  hostile  partisan 
that  I  hear  you  are  about  to  relinquish  the  practice  of  one  of 
your  dogmas  ;  in  consequence,  may  I  hope,  of  having  forsworn 
the  theory?" 

"Not  so,  my  lord,"  answered  Aram,  coloring  slightly;  my 
weakness  only  proves  that  my  theory  is  difficult, — not  that  it  is 
wrong.  1  still  venture  to  think  it  true.  More  pain  than  pleas- 


EUGENE     ARAM.  IIQ 

ure  is  occasioned  us  by  others  ;  banish  others,  ana  you  are 
necessarily  the  gainer.  Mental  activity  and  moral  quietude  are 
the  two  states  which,  were  they  perfected  and  united,  would  blend 
into  happiness.  It  is  such  a  union  which  constitutes  all  we  im- 
agine of  heaven,  or  conceive  of  the  majestic  felicity  of  a  God." 

"  Yet,  while  you  are  on  earth  you  will  be  (believe  me)  hap- 
pier in  the  state  you  are  about  to  choose,"  said  the  earl. 
"  Who  could  look  at  that  enchanting  face  (the  speaker  direct- 
ed his  eyes  toward  Madeline)  and  not  feel  that  it  gave  a  pledge 
of  happiness  that  could  not  be  broken  ?  " 

It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  Aram  to  like  any  allusion  to  him- 
self, and  still  less  to  his  affections  :  he  turned  aside  his  head, 
and  remained  silent  :  the  wary  earl  discovered  his  indiscretion 
immediately. 

''But  let  us  put  aside  individual  cases,"  said  he,— "  the  meant 
and  the  titum  forbid  all  general  argument  : — and  confess  that 
there  is  for  the  majority  of  human  beings  a  greater  happiness 
in  love  than  in  the  sublime  state  of  passionless  intellect  to 
which  you  would  so  chillingly  exalt  us.  Has  not  Cicero  said 
wisely,  that  we  ought  no  more  to  subject  too  slavishly  our 
affections,  than  to  elevate  them  too  imperiously  into  our  mas- 
ters ?  Neque  se  nimium  erigerc,  nee  subjacere  serviliter." 

"  Cicero  loved  philosophizing  better  than  philosophy,"  said 
Aram  coldly:  "but  surely,  my  lord,  the  affections  give  us  pain 
as  well  as  pleasure?  The  doubt,  the  dread,  the  restlessness  of 
love, — surely  these  prevent  the  passion  from  constituting  a 
happy  state  of  mind  ?  To  me,  one  knowledge  alone  seems  suf- 
ficient to  embitter  all  its  enjoyments — the  knowledge  that  the  ob- 
ject beloved  must  die.  What  a  perpetuity  of  fear  that  knowl- 
edge creates  !  The  avalanche  that  may  crush  us  depends  upon 
a  single  breath  !  " 

"Is  not  that  too  refined  a  sentiment  ?  Custom  surely  blunts 
us  to  every  chance,  every  danger,  that  may  happen  to  us  hour- 
ly. Were  the  avalanche  over  you  for  a  day,  I  grant  your  state 
of  torture  :  but  had  an  avalanche  rested  over  you  for  years 
and  not  yet  fallen,  you  would  forget  that  it  could  ever  fall  ; 
you  would  eat,  sleep,  and  make  love,  as  if  it  were  not !  " 

"  Ha  !  my  lord,  you  say  well — you  say  well,"  said  Aram, 
with  a  marked  change  of  countenance  ;  and,  quickening  his 
pace,  he  joined  Lester's  side,  and  the  thread  of  the  previous 
conversation  was  broken  off. 

The  earl  afterward  in  walking  through  the  garden  (an  ex- 
cursion which  he  proposed  himself,  for  he  was  somewhat  of  an 
horticulturist),  took  an  opportunity  to  renew  the  subject. 


120  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"You  will  pardon  me,"  said  he,  "  but  I  cannot  convince  my- 
self that  man  would  be  happier  were  he  without  emotions  ; 
and  that  to  enjoy  life  he  should  be  solely  dependent  on  him- 
self." 

"  Yet  it  seems  to  me,"  said  Aram,  "  a  truth  easy  of  proof. 
If  we  love,  we  place  our  happiness  in  others.  The  moment 
we  place  our  happiness  in  others,  comes  uncertainty,  but  un- 
certainty is  the  bane  of  happiness.  Children  are  the  source  of 
anxiety  to  their  parents  ;  his  mistress  to  the  lover.  Change, 
accident,  death,  all  menace  us  in  each  person  whom  we  regard. 
Every  new  affection  opens  new  channels  by  which  grief  can  in- 
vade us  ;  but,  you  will  say,  by  which  joy  also  can  flow  in  : — 
granted  !  But  in  human  life  is  there  not  more  grief  than  joy  ? 
What  is  it  that  renders  the  balance  even  ?  What  makes  the 
staple  of  our  happiness, — endearing  to  us  the  life  at  which  we 
should  otherwise  repine  ?  It  is  the  mere  passive,  yet  stirring, 
consciousness  of  life  itself  ! — of  the  sun  and  the  air, — of  the 
physical  being  ;  but  this  consciousness  every  emotion  disturbs. 
Yet  could  you  add  to  its  tranquillity  an  excitement  that  never 
exhausts  itself, — that  becomes  refreshed,  not  sated,  with  every 
new  possession,  then  you  would  obtain  happiness.  There  is 
only  one  excitement  of  this  divine  order, — that  of  intellectual 
culture.  Behold  now  my  theory  !  Examine  it, — it  contains  no 
flaw.  But  if,"  renewed  Aram,  after  a  pause,  "  a  man  is  sub- 
ject to  fate  solely  in  himself,  not  in  others,  he  soon  hardens  his 
mind  against  all  fear,  and  prepares  it  for  all  events.  A  little 
philosophy  enables  him  to  bear  bodily  pain,  or  the  common  in- 
firmities of  flesh  :  by  a  philosophy  somewhat  deeper,  he  can 
conquer  the  ordinary  reverses  of  fortune,  the  dread  of  shame, 
and  the  last  calamity  of  death.  But  what  philosophy  could 
ever  thoroughly  console  him  for  the  ingratitude  of  a  friend,  the 
worthlessness  of  a  child,  the  death  of  a  mistress  ?  Hence,  only, 
when  he  stands  alone,  can  a  man's  soul  say  to  Fate,  '  I  defy 
thee.'  " 

"You  think,  then,"  said  the  earl,  reluctantly  diverting  the 
conversation  into  a  new  channel,  "  that  in  the  pursuit  of  knowl- 
edge lies  our  only  active  road  to  real  happiness.  Yet  here  how 
eternal  must  be  the  disappointments  even  of  the  most  success- 
ful !  Does  not  Boyle  tell  us  of  a  man  who,  after  devoting  his 
whole  life  to  the  study  of  one  mineral,  confessed  himself,  at 
last,  ignorant  of  all  its  properties?" 

"Had  the  object  of  his  study  been  himself,  and  not  themin- 
era.1,  he  would  not  have  been  so  unsuccessful  a  student,"  said 
Aram,  smiling.  "  Yet,"  added  he,  in  a  graver  tone,  "  we  do 


EUGENE     ARAM.  121 

indeed  cleave  the  vast  heaven  of  Truth  with  a  weak  and  crip- 
pled wing  :  and  often  we  are  appalled  in  our  way  by  a  dread 
sense  of  the  immensity  around  us,  and  of  the  inadequacy  of  our 
own  strength.  But  there  is  a  rapture  in  the  breath  of  the  pure 
and  difficult  air,  and  in  the  progress  by  which  we  compass 
earth,  the  while  we  draw  nearer  to  the  stars,  that  again  exalts 
us  beyond  ourselves,  and  reconciles  the  true  student  unto  all 
things,  even  to  the  hardest  of  them  all, — the  conviction  how 
feebly  our  performance  can  ever  imitate  the  grandeur  of  our 
ambition  !  As  you  see  the  spark  fly  upward, — sometimes  not 
falling  to  earth  till  it  be  dark  and  quenched, — thus  soars, 
whither  it  recks  not,  so  that  the  direction  be  above,  the  lumi- 
nous spirit  of  him  who  aspires  to  Truth  ;  nor  will  it  back  to 
the  vile  and  heavy  clay  from  which  it  sprang,  until  the  light 
which  bore  it  upward  be  no  more  ! " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A    DEEPER    EXAMINATION    INTO    THE    STUDENT'S    HEART. THE 

VISIT    TO    THE    CASTLE. — PHILOSOPHY  PUT    TO    THE    TRIAL. 

"  I  weigh  not  Fortune's  frown  or  smile, 

I  joy  not  much  in  earthly  joys, 
I  seek  not  state,  I  seek  not  style, 

I  am  not  fond  of  Fancy's  toys  ; 
I  rest  so  pleased  with  what  I  have, 
I  wish  no  more,  no  more  I  crave." — JOSHUA  SYLVESTER. 

THE  reader  will  pardon  me  if  I  somewhat  clog  his  interest 
in  my  tale  by  the  didactic  character  of  brief  conversations  I 
have  just  given,  and  which  I  am  compelled  to  ren.ew.  It  is  not 
only  the  history  of  his  life,  but  the  character  and  tone  of  Aram's 
mind,  that  I  wish  to  stamp  upon  my  page.  Fortunately,  how- 
ever, the  path  my  story  assumes  is  of  such  a  nature  that,  in 
order  to  effect  this  object,  I  shall  never  have  to  desert,  and 
scarcely  again  even  to  linger  by,  the  way. 

Every  one  knows  the  magnificent  moral  of  Goethe's  Faust, 
Every  one  knows  that  sublime  discontent ;  that  chafing  at  the 
bounds  of  human  knowledge  ;  that  yearning  for  the  intellectual 
Paradise  beyond,  which  "the  sworded  angel"  forbids  us  to 
approach  ;  that  daring,  yet  sorrowful,  state  of  mind  ;  that  sense 
of  defeat,  even  in  conquest,  which  Goethe  has  embodied — a 
picture  of  the  loftiest  grief  of  which  the  soul  is  capable,  and 


122  EUGENE      ARAM. 

which  may  remind  us  of  the  profound  and  august  melancholy 
which  the  Great  Sculptor  breathed  into  the  repose  of  the 
noblest  of  mythological  heroes,  when  he  represented  the  god 
resting  after  his  labors,  as  if  more  convinced  of  their  vanity 
than  elated  with  their  extent  ! 

In  this  portrait,  the  grandeur  of  which  the  wild  scenes  that 
follow  in  the  drama  we  refer  to  do  not  (strangely  wonderful  as 
they  are)  perhaps  altogether  sustain,  Goethe  has  bequeathed  to 
the  gaze  of  a  calmer  and  more  practical  posterity  the  burning 
and  restless  spirit — the  feverish  desire  for  knowledge  more  vague 
than  useful,  which  characterized  the  exact  epoch  in  the  intel- 
lectual history  of  Germany  in  which  the  poem  was  inspired  and 
produced. 

At  these  bitter  waters,  the  Marah  of  the  streams  of  Wisdom, 
the  soul  of  the  man  whom  we  have  made  the  hero  of  these 
pages  had  also,  and  not  lightly  quaffed.  The  properties  of  a 
mind,  more  calm  and  stern  than  belonged  to  the  visionaries  of 
the  Hartz  and  the  Danube,  might  indeed  have  preserved  him 
from  that  thirst  for  the  Impossible,  which  gives  so  peculiar  a 
romance,  not  only  to  the  poetry,  but  the  philosophy,  of  the 
German  people.  But  if  he  rejected  the  superstitions,  he  did 
not  also  reject  the  bewilderments  of  the  mind.  He  loved  to 
plunge  into  the  dark  and  metaphysical  subtleties  which  human 
genius  has  called  daringly  forth  from  the  realities  of  things  : — 

"  to  spin 

A  shroud  of  thought,  to  hide  him  from  the  sun 
Of  this  familiar  life,  which  seems  to  be, 
But  is  not — or  is  but  quaint  mockery 
Of  all  we  would  believe— or  sadly  blame 
The  jarring  and  inexplicable  frame 
Of  this  wrong  world  :  and  then  anatomize 
The  purposes  and  thoughts  of  man,  whose  eyes 
Were  closed  in  distant  years  ;  or  widely  guess 
The  issue  of  the  earth's  great  business, 
When  we  shall  be,  as  we  no  longer  are — 
Like  babbling  gossips,  safe,  who  hear  the  war 
Of  winds,  and  sigh  ! — but  tremble  not  !  " 

Much  in  him  was  a  type,  or  rather  forerunner,  of  the  intel- 
lectual spirit  that  broke  forth  among  our  countrymen,  when  we 
were  children,  and  is  now  slowly  dying  away  amidst  the  loud 
events  and  absorbing  struggles  of  the  awakening  world.  But 
in  one  respect  he  stood  aloof  from  all  his  tribe,  in  his  hard 
indifference  to  worldly  ambition  and  his  contempt  of  fame.  As 
some  sages  have  considered  the  universe  a  dream,  and  self  the 
only  reality,  so  in  his  austere  and  collected  reliance  upon  his 


EUGENE      ARAM.  123 

own  mind,  the  gathering  in,  as  it  were,  of  his  resources,  he 
appeared  to  regard  the  pomps  of  the  world  as  shadows,  and  the 
life  of  his  own  spirit  the  only  substance.  He  had  built  a  city 
and  a  tower  within  the  Shinar  of  his  own  heart,  whence  he 
might  look  forth,  unscathed  and  unmoved,  upon  the  deluge 
that  broke  over  the  rest  of  earth. 

Only  in  one  instance,  and  that,  as  we  have  seen,  after  much 
struggle,  he  had  given  way  to  the  emotions  that  agitate  his  kind, 
and  had  surrendered  himself  to  the  dominion  of  another.  This 
was  against  his  theories,  but  what  theories  ever  resist  love  ?  In 
yielding,  however,  thus  far,  he  seemed  more  on  his  guard  than 
ever  against  a  broader  encroachment.  He  had  admitted  one 
"  fair  spirit"  for  his  "minister,"  but  it  was  only  with  a  deeper 
fervor  to  invoke  "  the  desert  "  as  "his  dwelling-place."  Thus, 
when  the  earl,  who,  like  most  practical  judges  of  mankind, 
loved  to  apply  to  each  individual  the  motives  that  actuate  the 
mass,  and  who  only  unwillingly,  and  somewhat  sceptically, 
assented  to  the  exceptions,  and  was  driven  to  search  for  pecu- 
liar clues  to  the  eccentric  instance,  finding,  to  his  secret  triumph, 
that  Aram  had  admitted  one  intruding  emotion  into  his  boasted 
circle  of  indifference,  imagined  that  he  should  easily  induce 
him  (the  spell  once  broken)  to  receive  another,  he  was  sur- 
prised and  puzzled  to  discover  himself  in  the  wrong. 

Lord at  that  time  had  been  lately  called  into  the  admin- 
istration, and  he  was  especially  anxious  to  secure  the  support 
of  all  the  talent  that  he  could  enlist  on  his  behalf.  The  times 
were  those  in  which  party  ran  high,  and  in  which  individual 
political  writings  were  honored  with  an  importance  which  the 
periodical  press  in  general  has  now  almost  wholly  monopolized. 
On  the  side  opposed  to  government,  writers  of  great  name  and 
high  attainments  had  shone  with  peculiar  effect,  and  the  earl 
was  naturally  desirous  that  they  should  be  opposed  by  an  equal 
array  of  intellect  on  the  side  espoused  by  himself.  The  name 
alone  of  Eugene  Aram,  at  a  day  when  scholarship  was  renown, 
would  have  been  no  ordinary  acquisition  to  the  cause  of  the 
earl's  party  ;  but  that  judicious  and  penetrating  nobleman  per- 
ceived that  Aram's  abilities,  his  various  research,  his  extended 
views,  his  facility  of  argument,  and  the  heat  and  energy  of 
his  eloquence,  might  be  rendered  of  an  importance  which 
could  not  have  been  anticipated  from  the  name  alone,  however 
eminent,  of  a  retired  and  sedentary  scholar  :  he  was  not,  there- 
fore, without  an  interested  motive  in  the  attentions  he  now 
lavished  upon  the  student,  and  in  his  curiosity  to  put  to  the  proof 
the  disdain  of  all  worldly  enterprise,  and  worldly  temptation, 


124  EUGENE     ARAM. 

which  Aram  affected.  He  could  not  but  think,  that,  to  a  man 
poor  and  lowly  of  circumstance,  conscious  of  superior  acquire- 
ments, about  to  increase  his  wants  by  admitting  to  them  a 
partner,  and  arrived  at  that  age  when  the  calculations  of  interest 
and  the  whispers  of  ambition  have  usually  most  weight, — he 
could  not  but  think  that  to  such  a  man  the  dazzling  prospects 
of  social  advancement,  the  hope  of  the  high  fortunes,  and  the 
powerful  and  glittering  influence  which  political  life,  in 
England,  offers  to  the  aspirant,  might  be  rendered  altogether 
irresistible. 

He  took  several  opportunities,  in  the  course  of  the  next 
week,  of  renewing  his  conversation  with  Aram,  and  of  artfully 
turning  it  into  the  channels  which  he  thought  most  likely  to 
produce  the  impression  he  desired  to  create.  He  was  some- 
what baffled,  but  by  no  means  dispirited,  in  his  attempts ;  but 
he  resolved  to  defer  his  ultimate  proposition  until  it  could  be 
made  to  the  fullest  advantage.  He  had  engaged  the  Lesters 
to  promise  to  pass  a  day  at  the  castle  ;  and  with  great  diffi- 
culty, and  at  the  earnest  intercession  of  Madeline,  Aram  was 
prevailed  upon  to  accompany  them.  So  extreme  was  his 
distaste  to  general  society,  and,  from  some  motive  or  another 
more  powerful  than  mere  constitutional  reserve,  so  invariably 
had  he  for  years  refused  all  temptations  to  enter  it,  that,  natu- 
ral as  this  concession  was  rendered  by  his  approaching  marriage 
to  one  of  the  party,  it  filled  him  with  a  sort  of  terror  and  fore- 
boding of  evil.  It  was  as  if  he  were  passing  beyond  the 
boundary  of  some  law,  on  which  the  very  tenure  of  his  existence 
depended.  After  he  had  consented,  a  trembling  came  over 
him  ;  he  hastily  left  the  room,  and,  till  the  day  arrived,  was 
observed  by  his  friends  of  the  manor-house  to  be  more  gloomy 
and  abstracted  than  they  ever  had  known  him,  even  at  the 
earliest  period  of  acquaintance. 

On  the  day  itself,  as  they  proceeded  to  the  castle,  Madeline 
perceived,  with  a  tearful  repentance  of  her  interference,  that 
he  sat  by  her  side  cold  and  rapt  ;  and  that,  once  or  twice, 
when  his  eyes  dwelt  upon  her,  it  was  with  an  expression  of  re- 
proach and  distrust. 

It  was  not  till  they  entered  the  lofty  hall  of  the  castle,  when 
a  vulgar  diffidence  would  have  been  most  abashed,  that  Aram 
recovered  himself.  The  earl  was  standing — the  centre  of  a 
group  in  the  recess  of  a  window  in  the  saloon,  opening  upon 
an  extensive  and  stately  terrace.  He  came  forward  to  receive 
them  with  the  polished  and  warm  kindness  which  he  bestowed 
uoon  all  his  inferiors  in  rank.  He  complimented  the  sisters  ; 


EUGENE     ARAM.  125 

he  jested  with  Lester  ;  but  to  Aram  only  he  manifested  less  the 
courtesy  of  kindness  than  of  respect.  He  took  his  arm,  and, 
leaning  on  it  with  a  light  touch,  led  him  to  the  group  at  the 
window.  It  was  composed  of  the  most  distinguished  public 
men  in  the  country,  and  among  them  (the  earl  himself  was 
connected,  through  an  illegitimate  branch,  with  the  reigning 
monarch)  was  a  prince  of  the  blood  royal. 

To  these,  whom  he  had  prepared  for  the  introduction,  he 
severally,  and  with  an  easy  grace,  presented  Aram,  and  then,  fall- 
ing back  a  few  steps,  he  watched,  with  a  keen  but  seemingly 
careless  eye,  the  effect  which  so  sudden  a  contact  with  royalty 
itself  would  produce  on  the  mind  of  the  shy  and  secluded 
student,  whom  it  was  his  object  to  dazzle  and  overpower.  It 
was  at  this  moment  that  the  native  dignity  of  Aram,  which  his 
studies,  unworldly  as  they  were,  had  certainly  tended  to  in- 
crease, displayed  itself,  in  a  trial  which,  poor  as  it  was  in 
abstract  theory,  was  far  from  despicable  in  the  eyes  of  the 
sensible  and  practised  courtier.  He  received  with  his  usual 
modesty,  but  not  with  his  usual  shrinking  and  embarrassment 
on  such  occasions,  the  compliments  he  received  ;  a  certain  and 
far  from  ungracefiil  pride  was  mingled  with  his  simplicity  of 
demeanor  ;  no  fluttering  of  manner  betrayed  that  he  was  either 
dazzled  or  humbled  by  the  presence  in  which  he  stood,  and 
the  earl  could  not  but  confess  that  there  was  never  a  more 
favorable  opportunity  for  comparing  the  aristocracy  of  genius 
with  that  of  birth  ;  it  was  one  of  those  homely  everyday 
triumphs  of  intellect  which  please  us  more  than  they  ought  to 
do,  for,  after  all,  they  are  more  common  than  the  men  of  courts 
are  willing  to  believe. 

Lord did  not,  however,  long  leave  Aram  to  the  support 

of  his  own  unassisted  presence  of  mind  and  calmness  of  nerve  ; 
he  advanced,  and  led  the  conversation,  with  his  usual  tact,  into 
a  course  which  might  at  once  please  Aram,  and  afford  him  the 
opportunity  to  shine.  The  earl  had  imported  from  Italy  some 
of  the  most  beautiful  specimens  of  classic  sculpture  which  this 
country  now  possesses.  These  were  disposed  in  niches  around 
the  magnificent  apartment  in  which  the  guests  were  assembled, 
and  as  the  earl  pointed  them  out,  and  illustrated  each  from  the 
beautiful  anecdotes  and  golden  allusions  of  antiquity,  he  felt 
that  he  was  affording  to  Aram  a  gratification  he  could  never  have 
experienced  before,  and  in  the  expression  of  which  the  grace 
and  copiousness  of  his  learning  would  find  vent.  Nor  was  he 
disappointed.  The  cheek,  which  till  then  had  retained  its  steady 
paleness,  now  caught  the  glow  of  enthusiasm  ;  and  in  a  few 


126  EUGENE      ARAM. 

moments  there  was  not  a  person  in  the  group  who  did  not  feel, 
and  cheerfully  feel,  the  superiority  of  the  one  who,  in  birth  and 
fortune,  was  immeasurably  the  lowest  of  all. 

The  English  aristocracy,  whatever  be  the  faults  of  their  edu- 
cation, have  at  least  the  merit  of  being  alive  to  the  possession, 
and  easily  warmed  to  the  possessor,  of  classical  attainments  : 
perhaps  too  much  so  ;  for  they  are  thus  apt  to  judge  all  talent 
by  a  classical  standard,  and  all  theory  by  classical  experience. 
Without — save  in  very  rare  instances — the  right  to  boast  of 
any  deep  learning,  they  are  far  more  susceptible  than  the  no- 
bility of  any  other  nation  to  the  spiritual  Camxnce.  They  are 
easily  and  willingly  charmed  back  to  the  studies  which,  if  not 
eagerly  pursued  in  their  youth,  are  still  entwined  with  all  their 
youth's  brightest  recollections  :  the  schoolboy's  prize  and  the 
master's  praise,  the  first  ambition  and  its  first  reward.  A 
felicitous  quotation,  a  delicate  allusion,  are  never  lost  upon 
their  ear  ;  and  the  veneration  which,  at  Eton,  they  bore  to  the 
best  verse-maker  in  the  school,  tinctures  their  judgment  of 
others  throughout  life,  mixing,  I  know  not  what,  both  of  liking 
and  esteem,  with  their  admiration  of  one  who  uses  his  classical 
weapons  with  a  scholar's  dexterity,  not  a  pedant's  inaptitude  : 
for  such  a  one  there  is  a  sort  of  agreeable  confusion  in  their 
respect ;  they  are  inclined,  unconsciously,  to  believe  that  he 
must  necessarily  be  a  high  gentleman — ay,  and  something  of 
a  good  fellow  into  the  bargain. 

It  happened,  then,  that  Aram  could  not  have  dwelt  upon  a 
theme  more  likely  to  arrest  the  spontaneous  interest  of  those 
with  whom  he  now  conversed — men  themselves  of  more  culti- 
vated minds  than  usual,  and  more  capable  than  most  (from 
that  acute  perception  of  real  talent,  which  in  produced  by  ha- 
bitual political  warfare),  of  appreciating  not  only  his  endow- 
ments, but  his  facility  in  applying  them. 

"You  are  right,  my  lord,"  said  Sir ,  the  whipper-in  of 

the  —  -  party,  taking  the  earl  aside  ;  "  he  would  be  an  inesti- 
mable pamphleteer." 

"  Could  you  get  him  to  write  us  a  sketch  of  the  state  of  par- 
ties ;  luminous,  eloquent?"  whispered  a  lord  of  the  bed- 
chamber. 

The  earl  answered  by  a  bon  mot,  and  turned  to  a  bust  of 
Caracalla. 

The  hours  at  that  time  were  (in  the  country  at  least)  not 
late,  and  the  earl  was  one  of  the  first  introducers  of  the  pol- 
ished fashion  of  France,  by  which  we  testify  a  preference  of 
the  society  of  the  women  to  that  of  our  own  sex  ;  so  that,  in 


EUGENE      ARAM.  127 

leaving  the  dining-room,  it  was  not  so  late  but  that  the  greater 
part  of  the  guests  walked  out  upon  the  terrace,  and  admired 
the  expanse  of  country  which  it  overlooked,  and  along  which 
the  thin  veil  of  the  twilight  began  now  to  hover. 

Having  safely  deposited  his  royal  guest  at  a  whist  table,  and 
thus  left  himself  a  free  agent,  the  earl,  inviting  Aram  to  join 
him,  sauntered  among  the  loiterers  on  the  terrace  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  descended  a  broad  flight  of  steps,  which 
brought  them  into  a  more  shaded  and  retired  walk,  on  either 
side  of  which  rows  of  orange-trees  gave  forth  their  fragrance, 
while,  to  the  right,  sudden  and  numerous  vistas  were  cut 
amidst  the  more  regular  and  dense  foliage,  affording 
glimpses — now  of  some  rustic  statue — now  of  some  lonely  tem- 
ple— now  of  some  quaint  fountain,  on  the  play  of  whose  waters 
the  first  stars  had  begun  to  tremble. 

It  was  one  of  those  magnificent  gardens,  modelled  from  the 
stately,  glories  of  Versailles,  which  it  is  now  the  mode  to  decry, 
but  which  breathe  so  unequivocally  of  the  palace.  I  grant  that 
they  deck  Nature  with  somewhat  too  prolix  a  grace  ;  but  is 
Beauty  always  best  seen  in  deshabille  ?  And  with  what  asso- 
ciations of  the  brightest  traditions  connected  with  Nature  they 
link  her  more  luxuriant  loveliness  !  Must  we  breathe  only  the 
malaria  of  Rome  to  be  capable  of  feeling  the  interest  attached 
to  the  fountain  or  the  statue  ? 

"I  am  glad,"  said  the  earl,  "that  you  admired  my  bust  of 
Cicero — it  is  from  an  original  very  lately  discovered.  What 
grandeur  in  the  brow  ! — what  energy  in  the  mouth  and  down- 
ward bend  of  the  head  !  It  is  pleasant  even  to  imagine  we 
gaze  upon  the  likeness  of  so  bright  a  spirit :  and  confess,  at 
least  of  Cicero,  that  in  reading  the  aspirations  and  outpour- 
ings of  his  mind,  you  have  felt  your  apathy  to  fame  melting 
away  ;  you  have  shared  the  desire  to  live  in  the  future  age, — 
'  the  longing  after  immortality  !  " 

"Was  it  not  that  longing,"  replied  Aram,  "which  gave  the 
character  of  Cicero  its  poorest  and  most  frivolous  infirmity  ? 
Has  it  not  made  him,  glorious  as  he  is  despite  of  it,  a  byword 
in  the  mouth  of  every  schoolboy  ?  Whenever  you  mention  his 
genius,  do  you  not  hear  an  appendix  on  his  vanity  ?  " 

"Yet  without  that  vanity,  that  desire  for  a  name  with  pos- 
terity, would  he  have  been  equally  great — would  he  equally  have 
cultivated  his  genius?" 

"  Probably,  my  lord,  he  would  not  have  equally  culti- 
vated his  genius,  but  in  reality  he  might  have  been  equally 
great.  A  man  often  injures  his  mind  by  the  means  that  in- 


128  EUGENE     ARAM. 

crease  his  genius.  You  think  this,  ray  lord,  a  paradox  ;  but 
examine  it.  How  many  men  of  genius  have  been  but  ordinary 
men,  take  them  from  the  particular  objects  in  which  they 
shine  !  Why  is  this,  but  that  in  cultivating  one  branch  of  in- 
tellect they  neglect  the  rest  ?  Nay,  the  very  torpor  of  the  rea- 
soning faculty  lias  often  kindled  the  imaginative.  Lucretius  is 
said  to  have  composed  his  sublime  poem  under  the  influence 
of  a  delirium.  The  susceptibilities  that  we  create  or  refine  by 
the  pursuit  of  one  object  weaken  our  general  reason  ;  and  I 
may  compare  with  some  justice  the  powers  of  the  mind  to  the 
faculties  of  the  body,  in  which  squinting  is  occasioned  by  an 
inequality  of  strength  in  the  eyes,  and  discordance  of  voice  by 
the  same  inequality  in  the  ears." 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,"  said  the  earl ;  "yet  I  own  I  will- 
ingly forgive  Cicero  for  his  vanity,  if  it  contributed  to  the  pro- 
duction of  his  orations  and  his  essays.  And  he  is  a  greater  man, 
even  with  his  vanity  unconquered,  than  if  he  had  conquered  his 
foible,  and,  in  doing  so,  taken  away  the  incitements  to  his  genius." 

"A  greater  man  in  the  world's  eye,  my  lord,  but  scarcely  in 
reality.  Had  Homer  written  his  Iliad  and  then  burned  it, 
would  his  genius  have  been  less  ?  The  world  would  have 
known  nothing  of  him  ;  but  would  he  have  been  a  less  extra- 
ordinary man  on  that  account  ?  We  are  too  apt,  my  lord,  to 
confound  greatness  and  fame." 

"There  is  one  circumstance,"  added  Aram,  after  a  pause, 
"  that  should  diminish  our  respect  for  renown.  Errors  of  life, 
as  well  as  foibles  of  character,  are  often  the  real  enhancers  of 
celebrity.  Without  his  errors,  I  doubt  whether  Henri  Quatre 
would  have  become  the  idol  of  a  people.  How  many  W bar- 
tons has  the  world  known,  who,  deprived  of  their  frailties,  had 
been  inglorious  !  The  light  that  you  so  admire  reaches  you 
only  through  the  distance  of  time,  on  account  of  the  angles 
and  unevenness  of  the  body  whence  it  emanates.  Were  the 
surface  of  the  moon  smooth  it  would  be  invisible." 

"I  admire  your  illustrations,"  said  the  earl;  "but  I  reluc- 
tantly submit  to  your  reasonings.  You  would  then  neglect  your 
powers,  lest  they  should  lead  you  into  errors  ?" 

"  Pardon  me,  my  lord  ;  it  is  because  I  think  all  the  powers 
should  be  cultivated,  that  I  quarrel  with  the  exclusive  cultiva- 
tion of  one.  And  it  is  only  because  I  would  strengthen  the 
whole  mind  that  I  dissent  from  the  reasonings  of  those  who 
tell  you  to  consult  your  genius." 

"  But  your  genius  may  serve  mankind  more  than  this  general 
cultivation  of  intellect." 


EUGENE     ARAM.  12$ 

"My  lord,"  replied  Aram,  with  a  mournful  cloud  upon  his 
countenance,  "  that  argument  may  have  weight  with  those  who 
think  mankind  can  be  effectually  served,  though  they  may  be 
often  dazzled,  by  the  labors  of  an  individual.  But,  indeed, 
this  perpetual  talk  of  '  mankind  '  signifies  nothing  :  each  of  us 
consults  his  proper  happiness,  and  we  consider  him  a  madman 
who  ruins  his  own  peace  of  mind  by  an  everlasting  fretfulness 
of  philanthropy." 

This  was  a  doctrine  that  half  pleased,  half  displeased  the 
earl :  it  shadowed  forth  the  most  dangerous  notions  which 
Aram  entertained. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  noble  host,  as,  after  a  short  contest  on 
the  ground  of  his  guest's  last  remark,  they  left  off  where  they 
began,  "let  us  drop  these  general  discussions  :  I  have  a  par- 
ticular proposition  to  unfold.  We  have,  I  trust,  Mr.  Aram, 
seen  enough  of  each  other  to  feel  that  we  can  lay  a  sure  foun- 
dation for  mutual  esteem.  For  my  part,  I  own  frankly,  that  I 
have  never  met  with  one  who  has  inspired  me  with  a  sincerer 
admiration.  I  am  desirous  that  your  talents  and  great  learn- 
ing should  be  known  in  the  widest  sphere.  You  may  despise 
fame,  but  you  must  permit  your  friends  the  weakness  to  wish 
you  justice,  and  themselves  triumph.  You  know  my  post  in 
the  present  administration  :  the  place  of  my  secretary  is  one  of 
great  trust,  some  influence,  and  fair  emolument.  I  offer  it  to 
you  ;  accept  it,  and  you  will  confer  upon  me  an  honor  and  an 
obligation.  You  will  have  your  own  separate  house  ;  or,  apart- 
ments in  mine,  solely  appropriated  to  your  use.  Your  privacy 
will  never  be  disturbed.  Every  arrangement  shall  be  made  for 
yourself  and  your  bride,  that  either  of  you  can  suggest.  Leisure 
for  your  o\vn  pursuits  you  will  have,  too,  in  abundance  ;  there 
are  others  who  will  perform  all  that  is  toilsome  in  the  mere  de- 
tails of  your  office.  In  London,  you  will  see  around  you  the 
most  eminent  living  men  of  all  nations,  and  in  all  pursuits.  If 
you  contract  (which  believe  me  is  possible — it  is  a  tempting 
game  !)  any  inclination  toward  public  life,  you  will  have  the 
most  brilliant  opportunities  afforded  you,  and  I  foretrll  you 
the  most  signal  success.  Stay  yet  one  moment  ;  for  this 
you  will  owe  me  no  thanks.  Were  I  not  sensible  that  I  con- 
sult my  own  interests  in  this  proposal,  I  should  be  courtier 
enough  to  suppress  it." 

"  My  lord,"  said  Aram,  in  a  voice  which,  in  spite  of  its 
calmness,  betrayed  that  he  was  affected,  "  it  seldom  happens 
to  a  man  of  my  secluded  habits,  and  lowly  pursuits,  to  have 
the  philosophy  he  affects  put  to  so  severe  a  trial.  I  am  grate- 


130  EUGENE     ARAM. 

ful  to  you — deeply  grateful  for  an  offer  so  munificent — so  un- 
deserved. I  am  yet  more  grateful  that  it  allows  me  to  sound 
the  strength  of  my  own  heart,  and  to  find  that  I  did  not  too 
highly  rate  it.  Look,  my  lord,  from  the  spot  where  we  now 
stand  "  (the  moon  had  risen,  and  they  had  now  returned  to 
the  terrace)  :  "  in  the  vale  below,  and  far  among  those  trees, 
lies  my  home.  More  than  two  years  ago  I  came  thither  to 
fix  the  resting-place  of  a  sad  and  troubled  spirit.  There  have 
I  centred  all  my  wishes  and  my  hopes  ;  and  there  may  I  breathe 
my  last  !  My  lord,  you  will  not  think  me  ungrateful  that  my 
choice  is  made  ;  and  you  will  not  blame  my  motive,  though 
you  may  despise  my  wisdom." 

"  But,"  said  the  earl,  astonished,  "  you  cannot  foresee  the 
the  advantages  you  would  renounce  ?  At  your  age — with  your 
intellect — to  choose  the  living  sepulchre  of  a  hermitage — it  was 
wise  to  reconcile  yourself  to  it.  but  it  is  not  wise  to  prefer  it  ! 
Nay,  nay  ;  consider — pause.  I  am  in  no  haste  for  your  deci- 
sion ;  and  what  advantages  have  you  in  your  retreat,  that  you 
will  not  possess  in  a  greater  degree  with  me?"  Quiet?  I 
pledge  it  to  you  under  my  roof.  Solitude?  you  shall  have  it 
at  your  will.  Books  ?  what  are  those  which  you,  which  any 
individual  may  possess,  to  the  public  institutions,  the  magnifi- 
cent collections,  of  the  metropolis  ?  What  else  is  it  you  enjoy 
yonder,  and  cannot  enjoy  with  me  ?  " 

"  Liberty  !  "  said  Aram  energetically.  "  Liberty  !  the  wild 
sense  of  independence.  Could  I  exchange  the  lonely  stars  and 
the  free  air,  for  the  poor  lights  and  feverish  atmosphere  of 
worldly  life  ?  Could  I  surrender  my  mood,  with  its  thousand 
eccentricities  and  humors — its  cloud  and  shadow — to  the  eyes 
of  strangers,  or  veil  it  from  their  gaze  by  the  irksomeness  of  an 
eternal  hypocrisy  ?  No,  my  lord  !  I  am  too  old  to  turn  disciple 
to  the  world  !  You  promise  me  solitude  and  quiet.  What  charm 
would  they  have  for  me,  if  I  felt  they  were  held  from  the  gene- 
rosity of  another  ?  The  attraction  of  solitude  is  only  in  its  in- 
dependence. You  offer  me  the  circle,  but  not  the  magic  which 
made  it  holy.  Books.  They,  years  since,  would  have  tempted 
me;  but  those  whose  wisdom  I  have  already  drained,  have  taught 
me  now  almost  enough  ;  and  the  two  books  whose  interest  can 
never  be  exhausted — Nature  and  my  own  heart — will  suffice  for 
the  rest  of  life.  My  lord,  I  require  no  time  for  consideration." 

"  And  you  positively  refuse  me  ?" 

"  Gratefully  refuse  you." 

The  earl  peevishly  walked  away  for  one  moment  ;  but  it 
was  not  in  his  nature  to  lose  himself  for  more. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  IJt 

"  Mr.  Aram,"  said  he  frankly,  and  holding  out  his  hand* 
"you  have  chosen  nobly,  if  not  wisely;  and  though  I  cannot 
forgive  you  for  depriving  me  of  such  a  companion,  I  thank  you 
for  teaching  me  such  a  lesson.  Henceforth  I  will  believe  that 
philosophy  may  exist  in  practice,  and  that  a  contempt  for 
wealth  and  for  honors  is  not  the  mere  profession  of  discontent. 
This  is  the  first  time,  in  a  various  and  experienced  life,  that  I 
have  found  a  man  sincerely  deaf  to  the  temptations  of  the 
world, — and  that  man  of  such  endowments  !  If  ever  you  see 
cause  to  alter  a  theory  that  I  still  think  erroneous,  though 
lofty — remember  me  ;  and  at  all  times,  and  on  all  occasions," 
he  added  with  a  smile,  "when  a  friend  becomes  a  necessary 
evil,  call  to  mind  our  starlight  walk  on  the  castle  terrace." 

Aram  did  not  mention  to  Lester,  or  even  Madeline,  the 
above  conversation.  The  whole  of  the  next  day  he  shut  him- 
self up  at  home  ;  and  when  he  again  appeared  at  the  manor- 
house  he  heard,  with  evident  satisfaction,  that  the  earl  had 
been  suddenly  summoned  on  state  affairs  to  London. 

There  was  an  unaccountable  soreness  in  Aram's  mind,  which 
made  him  feel  a  resentment — a  suspicion — against  all  who 
sought  to  lure  him  from  his  retreat.  "  Thank  Heaven  !  " 
thought  he,  when  he  heard  of  the  earl's  departure  ;  "  we  shall 
not  meet  for  another  year !  "  He  was  mistaken.  Another 
year  ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN  WHICH  THE  STORY  RETURNS  TO  WALTER  AND  THE  COR- 
PORAL.— THE  RENCONTRE  WITH  A  STRANGER,  AND  HOW  THE 
STRANGER  PROVES  TO  BE  NOT  ALTOGETHER  A  STRANGER. 

"  Being  got  out  of  town  in  the  road  to  Penaflor,  master  of  my  own  action, 
and  forty  good  ducats,  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  give  my  mule  her  head, 
and  to  go  at  what  pace  she  pleased. 

********* 

"  I  left  them  in  the  inn,  and  continued  my  journey  ;  I  was  hardly  got 
half  a  mile  farther,  when  I  met  a  cavalier  very  genteel,"  etc. — Gil  Bias. 

IT  was  broad  and  sunny  noon  on  the  second  day  of  their 
journey,  as  Walter  Lester,  and  the  valorous  attendant  with 
whom  it  had  pleased  Fate  to  endow  him,  rode  slowly  into  a 
small  town  in  which  the  corporal,  in  his  own  heart,  had  re- 
solved to  bait  his  Roman-nosed  horse  and  refresh  himself.  Two 
comely  inns  had  the  younger  traveller  of  the  two  already  passed 


133  EUGENE     ARAM. 

v/ith  an  indifferent  air,  as  if  neither  bait  nor  refreshment  made 
any  part  of  the  necessary  concerns  of  this  habitable  world. 
And  in  passing  each  of  the  said  hostelries,  the  Roman-nosed 
horse  had  uttered  a  snort  of  indignant  surprise,  and  the  worthy 
corporal  had  responded  to  the  quadrupedal  remonstrance  by  a 
loud  hem.  It  seemed,  however,  that  Walter  heard  neither  of 
the  above  significant  admonitions  ;  and  now  the  town  was 
nearly  passed,  and  a  steep  hill,  that  seemed  winding  away  into 
eternity,  already  presented  itself  to  the  rueful  gaze  of  the  cor- 
poral. 

"The  boy's  clean  rnad,"  grunted  Bunting  to  himself — "must 
do  my  duty  to  him — give  him  a  hint." 

Pursuant  to  this  notable  and  conscientious  determination, 
Bunting  jogged  his  horse  into  a  trot,  and  coming  alongside  of 
Walter,  put  his  hand  to  his  hat  and  said, 

"  Weather  warm,  your  honor — horses  knocked  up — next  town 
far  as  hell !  Halt  a  bit  here — augh  !  " 

"  Ha  !  that  is  very  true,  Bunting  ;  I  had  quite  forgotten  the 
length  of  our  journey.  But  see,  there  is  a  signpost  yonder, 
we  wiil  take  advantage  of  it." 

"  Augh  !  and  your  honor's  right — fit  for  the  Forty-second," 
said  the  corporal,  falling  back  ;  and  in  a  few  moments  he  and 
his  charger  found  themselves,  to  their  mutual  delight,  entering 
the  yard  of  a  small  but  comfortable-looking  inn. 

The  host,  a  man  of  a  capacious  stomach  and  a  rosy  cheek — 
in  short,  a  host  whom  your  heart  warms  to  see — stepped  forth 
immediately,  held  the  stirrup  for  the  young  squire  (for  the 
corporal's  movements  were  too  stately  to  be  rapid),  and  ushered 
him  with  a  bow,  a  smile,  and  a  flourish  of  his  napkin,  into 
one  of  those  little  quaint  rooms,  with  cupboards  bright  with 
high  glasses  and  old  china,  that  it  pleases  us  still  to  find  ex- 
tant in  the  old-fashioned  inns,  in  our  remoter  roads  and  less 
Londonized  districts. 

Mine  host  was  an  honest  fellow,  and  not  above  his  profes- 
sion ;  he  stirred  the  fire,  dusted  the  table,  brought  the  bill  of 
fare,  and  a  newspaper  seven  days  old,  and  then  bustled  away 
to  order  the  dinner,  and  chat  with  the  corporal.  That  accom- 
plished hero  had  already  thrown  the  stables  into  commotion, 
and. frightening  the  two  ostlers  from  their  attendance  on  the 
steeds  of  more  peaceable  men,  had  set  them  both  at  leading 
his  own  horse  and  his  master's  to  and  fro  the  yard,  to  be  cooled 
into  comfort  and  appetite. 

He  was  now  busy  in  the  kitchen,  where  he  had  seized  the 
reins  of  government,  sent  the  scullion  to  see  if  the  hens  had 


EUGENE     ARAM.  133 

laid  any  fresh  eggs,  and  drawn  upon  himself  the  objugations  of 
a  very  thin  cook  with  a  squint. 

"  Tell  you,  ma'am,  you  are  wrong — quite  wrong  ;  seen  the 
world — old  soldier — and  know  how  to  fry  eggs  better  than  any 
she  in  the  three  kingdoms.  Hold  jaw — mind  your  own  busi- 
ness— where's  the  frying-pan  ?  Baugh  ! 

So  completely  did  the  corporal  feel  himself  in  his  element, 
while  he  was  putting  everybody  else  out  of  the  way  ;  and  so  com- 
fortable did  he  find  his  new  quarters,  that  he  resolved  that  the 
"  bait"  should  be  at  all  events  prolonged  until  his  good  cheer 
had  been  deliberately  digested,  and  his  customary  pipe  duly 
enjoyed. 

Accordingly,  but  not  till  Walter  had  dined,  for  our  man  of 
the  world  knew  that  it  is  the  tendency  of  that  meal  to  abate 
our  activity,  while  it  increases  our  good-humor,  the  corporal 
presented  himself  to  his  master,  with  a  grave  countenance. 

"  Greatly  vexed,  your  honor — who'd  have  thought  it?  But 
those  large  animals  are  bad  on  long  march." 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  now,  Bunting?  " 

"  Only,  sir,  that  the  brown  horse  is  so  done  up,  that  I  think 
it  would  be  as  much  as  life's  worth  to  go  any  farther  for  several 
hours." 

"Very  well  ;  and  if  I  propose  staying  here  till  the  evening  ? 
We  have  ridden  far,  and  are  in  no  great  hurry." 

"  To  be  sure  not — sure  and  certain  not,"  cried  the  corporal. 
"  Ah,  master,  you  know  how  to  command,  I  see.  Nothing  like 
discretion — discretion,  sir,  is  a  jewel.  Sir,  it  is  more  than  a 
jewel — it's  a  pair  of  stirrups  !  " 

"A  what,  Bunting?" 

"  Pair  of  stirrups,  your  honor.  Stirrups  help  us  to  get  on,  so 
does  discretion  ;  to  get  off,  ditto  discretion.  Men  without 
stirrups  look  fine,  ride  bold,  tire  soon  :  men  without  discretion 
cut  dash,  but  knock  up  all  of  a  crack.  Stirrups — but  what 
signifies  ?  Could  say  much  more,  your  honor,  but  don't  love 
chatter." 

"  Your  simile  is  ingenious  enough,  if  not  poetical,"  said 
Walter  :  "  but  it  does  not  hold  good  to  the  last.  When  a  man 
falls,  his  discretion  should  preserve  him  ;  but  he  is  often 
dragged  in  the  mud  by  his  stirrups." 

"  Beg  pardon — you're  wrong,"  quoth  the  corporal,  nothing 
taken  by  surprise;  "spoke  of  the  new-fangled  stirrups  that 
open,  crank,  when  we  fall,  and  let  us  out  of  the  scrape."* 

*  Of  course  the  corporal  does  not  speak  of  the  patent  stirrup  ;  that  would  be  an 
anachronism. 


134  EUGENE     ARAM. 

Satisfied  with  this  repartee,  the  corporal  now  (like  an  expe- 
rienced jester)  withdrew  to  leave  its  full  effect  on  the  admira- 
tion of  his  master.  A  little  before  sunset  the  two  travellers 
renewed  their  journey. 

"  I  have  loaded  the  pistols,  sir,"  said  the  corporal,  pointing 
to  the  holsters  on  Walter's  saddle.  "It  is  eighteen  miles  off  to 
the  next  town — will  be  dark  long  before  we  get  there." 

"  You  did  very  right,  Bunting,  though  I  suppose  there  is  not 
much  danger  to  be  apprehended  from  the  gentlemen  of  the 
highway." 

"  Why,  the  landlord  do  say  the  revarse,  your  honor  ;  been 
many  robberies  lately  in  these  here  parts." 

"  Well,  we  are  fairly  mounted,  and  you  are  a  formidable- 
looking  fellow.  Bunting." 

"  Oh  !  your  honor,"  quoth  the  corporal,  turning  his  head 
stiffly  away,  with  a  modest  simper,  "you  makes  me  blush; 
though,  indeed,  bating  that  I  have  the  military  air,  and  am 
more  in  the  prime  of  life,  your  honor  is  well-nigh  as  awkward 
a  gentleman  as  myself  to  come  across." 

"  Much  obliged  for  the  compliment !  "  said  Walter,  pushing 
his  horse  a  little  forward  :  the  corporal  took  the  hint,  and  fell 
back. 

It  was  now  that  beautiful  hour  of  twilight  when  lovers  grow 
especially  tender.  The  young  traveller  every  instant  threw  his 
dark  eyes  upward,  and  thought — not  of  Madeline,  but  her  sister. 
The  corporal  himself  grew  pensive,  and  in  a  few  moments  his 
whole  soul  was  absorbed  in  contemplating  the  forlorn  state  of 
the  abandoned  Jacobina. 

In  this  melancholy  and  silent  mood,  they  proceeded  onward 
till  the  shades  began  to  deepen  ;  and  by  the  light  of  the  first 
stars  Walter  beheld  a  small,  spare  gentleman  riding  before  him 
on  an  ambling  nag,  with  cropped  ears  and  mane.  The  rider, 
as  he  now  came  up  to  him,  seemed  to  have  passed  the  grand 
climacteric,  but  looked  hale  and  vigorous  ;  and  there  was  a  cer- 
tain air  of  staid  and  sober  aristocracy  about  him,  which  invol- 
untarily begat  your  respect. 

He  looked  hard  at  Walter  as  the  latter  approached,  and  still 
more  hard  at  the  corporal.  He  seemed  satisfied  with  the 
survey. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  slightly  touching  his  hat  to  Walter,  and  with 
an  agreeable  though  rather  sharp  intonation  of  voice,  "  I  am 
very  glad  to  see  a  gentleman  of  your  appearance  travelling  my 
road.  Might  I  request  the  honor  of  being  allowed  to  join  you 
so  far  as  you  go  ?  To  say  the  truth,  I  am  a  little  afraid  of  en- 


EUGENE     ARAM.  135 

countering  those  industrious  gentlemen  who  have  been  lately 
somewhat  notorious  in  these  parts  ;  and  it  may  be  better  for 
all  of  us  to  ride  in  as  strong  a  party  as  possible." 

"  Sir,"  replied  Walter,  eyeing  in  his  turn  the  speaker,  and  in  his 

turn  also  feeling  satisfied  with  the  scrutiny,  "  I  am  going  to , 

where  I  shall  pass  the  night  on  my  way  to  town,  and  shall  be 
very  happy  in  your  company." 

The  corporal  uttered  a  loud  hem  ;  that  penetrating  man  of  the 
world  was  not  too  well  pleased  with  the  advances  of  a  stranger. 

"  What  fools  them  boys  be  ! "  thought  he,  very  discontentedly. 
"Howsomever,  the  man  does  seem  like  a  decent  country  gentle- 
man, and  we  are  two  to  one :  besides,  he's  old,  little,  and — 
augh,  baugh  !  I  dare  say  we  are  safe  enough,  for  all  that  he 
can  do." 

The  stranger  possessed  a  polished  and  well-bred  demeanor ; 
he  talked  freely  and  copiously,  and  his  conversation  was  that 
of  a  shrewd  and  cultivated  man.  He  informed  Walter  that 
not  only  the  roads  had  been  infested  by  those  more  daring 
riders  common  at  that  day,  and  to  whose  merits  we  ourselves 
have  endeavored  to  do  justice  in  a  former  work  of  blessed 
memory,  but  that  several  houses  had  been  lately  attempted,  and 
two  absolutely  plundered. 

"  For  myself,"  he  added,  "  I  have  no  money  to  signify, 
about  my  person :  my  watch  is  only  valuable  to  me  for  the 
time  it  has  been  in  my  possession  ;  and  if  the  rogues  robbed 
one  civilly,  I  should  not  so  much  mind  encountering  them  : 
but  they  are  a  desperate  set,  and  use  violence  when  there  is 
nothing  to  be  got  by  it.  Have  you  travelled  far  to-day,  sir  ? " 

"  Some  six  or  seven-and-twenty  miles,"  replied  Walter.  "  I 
am  proceeding  to  London,  and  not  willing  to  distress  my 
horses  by  too  rapid  a  journey." 

"  Very  right,  very  good  ;  and  horses,  sir,  are  not  now  what 
they  used  to  be  when  I  was  a  young  man.  Ah,  what  wagers  I 
used  to  win  then  !  Horses  galloped,  sir,  when  I  was  twenty  ; 
they  trotted  when  I  was  thirty-five  ;  but  they  only  amble  now. 
Sir,  if  it  does  not  tax  your  patience  too  severely,  let  us  give  our 
nags  some  hay  and  water  at  the  half-way  house  yonder." 

Walter  assented  ;  they  stopped  at  a  little  solitary  inn  by  the 
side  of  the  road,  and  the  host  came  out  with  great  obsequious- 
ness when  he  heard  the  voice  of  Walter's  companion. 

"Ah,  Sir  Peter!  "  said  he,  "and  how  be'st  your  honor? — 
fine  night,  Sir  Peter — hope  you'll  get  home  safe,  Sir  Peter." 

"  Safe — ay  !  indeed  Jock,  I  hope  so  too.  Has  all  been  quiet 
here  this  last  night  or  two? " 


136  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"  Whish,  sir !  "  whispered  my  host,  jerking  his  thumb  back 
toward  the  house  ;  "  there  be  two  ugly  customers  within  I  does 
not  know ;  they  have  got  famous  good  horses,  and  are  drink- 
ing hard.  I  can't  say  as  I  knows  anything  agen  'em,  but  I 
think  your  honors  had  better  be  jogging." 

"  Aha  !  thank  ye,  Jock,  thank  ye.  Never  mind  the  hay  now," 
said  Sir  Peter,  pulling  away  the  reluctant  mouth  of  his  nag ; 
and  turning  to  Walter,  "come  sir,  let  us  move  on.  Why, 
zounds  !  where  is  that  servant  of  yours?  " 

Walter  now  perceived,  with  great  vexation,  that  the  corporal 
had  disappeared  within  the  alehouse  ;  and  looking  through  the 
casement,  on  which  the  ruddy  light  of  the  fire  played  cheerily, 
he  saw  the  man  of  the  world  lifting  a  little  measure  of  "  the 
pure  creature  "  to  his  lips ;  and  close  by  the  hearth,  at  a  small, 
round  table,  covered  with  glasses,  pipes,  etc.,  he  beheld  two 
men  eyeing  the  tall  corporal  very  wistfully,  and  of  no  prepos- 
sessing appearance  themselves.  One,  indeed,  as  the  fire 
played  full  on  his  countenance,  was  a  person  of  singularly 
rugged  and  sinister  features  ;  and  this  man,  he  now  remarked, 
was  addressing  himself  with  a  grim  smile  to  the  corporal,  who, 
setting  down  his  little  "  noggin,"  regarded  him  with  a  stare, 
which  appeared  to  Walter  to  denote  recognition.  This  survey 
was  the  operation  of  a  moment ;  for  Sir  Peter  took  it  upon 
himself  to  despatch  the  landlord  into  the  house,  to  order  forth 
the  unseasonable  carouser  ;  and  presently  the  corporal  stalked 
out,  and  having  solemnly  remounted,  the  whole  trio  set  onward 
in  a  brisk  trot.  As  soon  as  they  were  without  sight  of  the  ale- 
house, the  corporal  brought  the  aquiline  profile  of  his  gaunt 
steed  on  a  level  with  his  master's  horse. 

"  Augh,  sir!"  said  he,  with  more  than  his  usual  energy  of 
utterance,  "  I  see'd  him  !  " 

"  Him  !  whom?  " 

"  Man  with  ugly  face  what  drank  at  Peter  Dealtry's,  and 
went  to  Master  Aram's — knew  him  in  a  crack ;  sure  he's  a 
tartar !  " 

"What  !  does  your  servant  recognize  one  of  those  suspicious 
fellows  whom  Jock  warned  us  against  ? "  cried  Sir  Peter,  prick- 
ing up  his  ears. 

"So  it  seems,  sir,"  said  Walter  :  "  he  saw  him  once  before, 
many  miles  hence ;  but  I  fancy  he  knows  nothing  really  to  his 
prejudice." 

"Augh!"  cried  the  corporal;  "he's  d — d  ugly,  any- 
how ! " 

"That's  a  tall  fellow  of  yours,"  said  Sir  Peter,  jerking  up  his 


EttGENE     ARAM.  137 

chin  with  that  peculiar  motion  common  to  the  brief  in  stature, 
when  they  are  covetous  of  elongation.  "He  looks  military: 
has  he  been  in  the  army?  Ay,  I  thought  so;  one  of  the  King  of 
Prussia's  grenadiers,  I  suppose?  Faith,  I  hear  hoofs  behind  !" 

"  Hem  !"  cried  the  corporal,  again  coming  alongside  of  his 
master.  "  Beg  pardon,  sir,  served  in  the  Forty-second — nothing 
like  regular  line — stragglers  always  cut  off ;  had  rather  not 
straggle  just  now — enemy  behind  !  " 

Walter  looked  back  and  saw  two  men  approaching  them  at 
a  hand-gallop.  "  We  are  a  match  at  least  for  them,  sir,"  said 
he,  to  his  new  acquaintance. 

"  I  am  devilish  glad  I  met  you,"  was  Sir  Peter's  rather  selfish 
reply. 

'  Tis  he  !  'tis  the  devil !  "  grunted  the  corporal,  as  the  two 
men  now  gained  their  side  and  pulled  up;  and  Walter  recog- 
nized the  faces  he  had  remarked  in  the  alehouse. 

"Your  servant,  gentlemen,"  quoth  the  uglier  of  the  two; 
"you  ride  fast — " 

*'  And  ready  ;  bother — -baiigh  !  "  chimed  in  the  corporal, 
plucking  a  gigantic  pistol  from  his  holster,  without  any  further 
ceremony. 

"Glad  to  hear  it,  sir!"  said  the  hard-featured  stranger, 
nothing  dashed.  "  But  I  can  tell  you  a  secret !  " 

"  What's  that — augh  ? "  said  the  corporal,  cocking  his  pistol. 

"  Whoever  hurts  you,  friend,  cheats  the  gallows  !  "  replied  the 
stranger,  laughing,  and  spurring  on  his  horse,  to  be  out  of  reach 
of  any  practical  answer  with  which  the  corporal  might  favor  him. 
But  Bunting  was  a  prudent  man,  and  not  apt  to  be  choleric. 

"  Bother  !  "  said  he,  and  dropped  his  pistol,  as  the  other 
stranger  followed  his  ill-favored  comrade. 

"  You  see  we  are  too  strong  for  them  !  "  cried  Sir  Peter 
gaily  ;  "  evidently  highwaymen  !  How  very  fortunate  that  I 
should  have  fallen  in  with  you  ! " 

A  shower  of  rain  now  began  to  fall.  Sir  Peter  looked  serious  ; 
he  halted  abruptly — unbuckled  his  cloak,  which  had  been 
strapped  before  his  saddle — wrapped  himself  up  in  it — buried 
his  face  in  the  collar — muffled  his  chin  with  a  red  handkerchief, 
which  he  took  out  of  his  pocket,  and  then  turning  to  Walter, 
he  said  to  him,  "What !  no  cloak,  sir?  no  wrapper  even  ?  Upon 
my  soul  I  am  very  sorry  I  have  not  another  handkerchief  to 
lend  you !  " 

"  Man  of  the  world — baugh  ! "  grunted  the  corporal,  and 
his  heart  quite  warmed  to  the  stranger  he  had  at  first  taken  for 
a  robber. 


138  EUGENE      ARAM. 

"  And  now,  sir,"  said  Sir  Peter,  patting  his  nag,  and  pulling 
up  his  cloak-collar  still  higher,  "let  us  go  gently:  there  is  no 
occasion  for  hurry.  Why  distress  our  horses?  " 

"Really,  sir,"  said  Walter,  smiling,  "though  I  have  a  great 
regard  for  my  horse,  I  have  some  for  myself;  and  I  should 
rather  like  to  be  out  of  this  rain  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  Oh,  ah  !  you  have  no  cloak.  I  forgot  that ;  to  be  sure — 
to  be  sure  ;  let  us  trot  on,  gently — though — gently.  Well,  sir, 
as  I  was  saying,  horses  are  not  so  swift  as  they  were.  The 
breed  is  bought  up  by  the  French  !  I  remember  once,  Johnny 
Courtland  and  I,  after  dining  at  my  house  till  the  champagne 
had  played  the  dancing-master  to  our  brains,  mounted  our 
horses,  and  rode  twenty  miles  for  a  cool  thousand  the  winner. 
I  lost  it,  sir,  by  a  hair's  breadth  ;  but  I  lost  it  on  purpose  :  it 
would  have  half-ruined  Johnny  Courtland  to  have  paid  me,  and 
he  had  that  delicacy,  sir, — he  had  that  delicacy,  that  he  would 
not  have  suffered  me  to  refuse  taking  his  money  ;  so  what 
could  I  do,  but  lose  on  purpose  ?  You  see  I  had  no  alterna- 
tive !  " 

"  Pray,  sir,"  said  Walter,  charmed  and  astonished  at  so  rare 
an  instance  of  the  generosity  of  human  friendships — "pray, 
sir,  did  I  not  hear  you  called  Sir  Peter  by  the  landlord  of  the 
little  inn  ?  Can  it  be,  since  you  speak  so  familiarly  of  Mr. 
Courtland,  that  I  have  the  honor  to  address  Sir  Peter  Hales?" 

"  Indeed  that  is  my  name,"  replied  the  gentleman,  with  some 
surprise  in  his  voice.  "  But  I  have  never  had  the  honor  of 
seeing  you  before." 

"  Perhaps  my  name  is  not  unfamiliar  to  you,"  said  Walter. 
"  And  among  my  papers  I  have  a  letter  addressed  to  you  from 
my  uncle,  Rowland  Lester." 

"God  bless  me  !"  cried  Sir  Peter.  "What!  Rowy?— 
well,  indeed,  I  am  overjoyed  to  hear  of  him.  So  you  are  his 
nephew?  Pray  tell  me  all  about  him — a  wild,  gay,  rollicking 
fellow  still,  eh  !  Always  fencing,  sa — sa  !  or  playing  at  billiards, 
or  hot  in  a  steeple  chase  ;  there  was  not  a  jollier,  better- 
humored  fellow  in  the  world  than  Rowy  Lester." 

"  You  forget,  Sir  Peter,"  said  Walter,  laughing  at  a  descrip- 
tion so  unlike  his  sober  and  steady  uncle,  "  that  some  years 
have  passed  since  the  time  you  speak  of." 

"  Ah,  and  so  there  have,"  replied  Sir  Peter.  "And  what 
does  your  uncle  say  of  me?" 

"  That  when  he  knew  you,  you  were  all  generosity,  frankness, 
hospitality." 

"  Humph,  humph !  "  said  Sir  Peter,  looking  extremely  dis« 


EUGENE     ARAM.  13$ 

concerted,  a  confusion  which  Walter  imputed  solely  to  modesty. 
*'  I  was  a  hairbrained,  foolish  fellow  then — quite  a  boy,  quite 
a  boy  :  but  bless  me,  it  rains  sharply,  and  you  have  no  cloak. 
But  we  are  close  on  the  town  now.  An  excellent  inn  is  the 
'  Duke  of  Cumberland's  Head  ;  you  will  have  charming  accom- 
modation there." 

"  What,  Sir  Peter,  you  know  this  part  of  the  country  well !  " 

"  Pretty  well,  pretty  well ;  indeed  I  live  near,  that  is  to  say, 
not  very  far  from,  the  town.  This  turn,  if  you  please.  We 
separate  here.  I  have  brought  you  a  little  out  of  your  way — 
not  above  a  mile  or  two — for  fear  the  robbers  should  attack 
me  if  I  was  left  alone.  I  had  quite  forgot  you  had  no  cloak. 
That's  your  road — this  mine.  Aha  !  so  Rowy  Lester  is  still 
alive  and  hearty  ? — the  same  excellent  wild  fellow,  no  doubt. 
Give  my  kindest  remembrance  to  him  when  you  write.  Adieu, 
sir." 

This  latter  speech  having  been  delivered  during  a  halt,  the 
corporal  had  heard  it  :  he  grinned  delightedly  as  he  touched 
his  hat  to  Sir  Peter,  who  now  trotted  off,  and  muttered  to  his 
young  master  : 

"  Most  sensible  man,  that,  sir  !  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SIR  PETER  DISPLAYED. — ONE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD  SUFFERS  FROM 
ANOTHER. — THE     INCIDENT      OF      THE     BRIDLE     BEGETS    THE 

INCIDENT  OF  THE  SADDLE  ; THE    INCIDENT    OF  THE  SADDLE 

BEGETS  THE    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WHIP   : THE    INCIDENT    OF 

THE  WHIP  BEGETS  WHAT  THE  READER  MUST  READ  TO  SEE. 

"  Nihil  est  aliud  magnum  quam  multa  minuta."  * — Vet  Auct. 

"  AND  so,"  said  Walter  the  next  morning  to  the  head-waitev 
who  was  busied  about  their  preparations  for  breakfast ;  "  and 
so  Sir  Peter  Hales,  you  say,  lives  within  a  mile  of  the  town  ? " 

"  Scarcely  a  mile,  sir, — black  or  green  ? — you  passed  the 
turn  to  his  house  last  night ; — sir,  the  eggs  are  quite  fresh  this 
morning.  This  inn  belongs  to  Sir  Peter." 

"  Oh  !     Does  Sir  Peter  see  much  company  ?  " 

The  waiter  smiled. 

"Sir  Peter  gives  very  handsome  dinners,  sir  ;  twice  a  year \ 

'•Nor  is  there  anything  that  hath  so  great  a  power  as  the  aggregate  of  small  things. 


i'46  EUGENE      ARAM. 

A  most  clever  gentleman,  Sir  Peter  !  They  say  he  is  the  best 
manager  of  property  in  the  whole  county.  Do  you  like  York- 
shire cake  ? — toast  ?  yes,  sir !  " 

"So,  so,"  said  Walter  to  himself,  "a  pretty  true  description 
my  uncle  gave  me  of  this  gentleman.  'Ask  me  too  often  to 
dinner,  indeed  ! ' — '  offer  me  money  if  I  want  it  !  ' — '  spend  a 
month  at  his  house  !' — '  most  hospitable  fellow  in  the  world  ! ' — 
My  uncle  must  have  been  dreaming." 

Walter  had  yet  to  learn,  that  the  men  most  prodigal  when 
they  have  nothing  but  expectations,  are  often  most  thrifty  when 
they  know  the  charms  of  absolute  possession.  Besides,  Sir 
Peter  had  married  a  Scotch  lady,  and  was  blessed  with  eleven 
children  !  But  was  Sir  Peter  Hales  much  altered  ?  Sir  Peter 
Hales  was  exactly  the  same  man  in  reality  that  he  always  had 
been.  Once  he  was  selfish  in  extravagance  ;  he  was  now  selfish 
in  thrift.  He  had  always  pleased  himself,  and  forgot  other 
people  ;  that  was  exactly  what  he  valued  himself  on  doing 
now.  Buc  the  most  absurd  thing  about  Sir  Peter  was,  that 
while  he  was  forever  extracting  use  from  every  one  else,  he 
was  mightily  afraid  of  being  himself  put  to  use.  He  was  in 
Parliament,  and  noted  for  never  giving  a  frank  out  of  his  own 
family.  Yet  withal,  Sir  Peter  Hales  was  still  an  agreeable 
fellow ;  nay,  he  was  more  liked  and  much  more  esteemed  than 
ever.  There  is  something  concilatory  in  a  saving  disposition  ; 
but  people  put  themselves  in  a  great  passion  when  a  man  is  too 
liberal  with  his  own.  It  is  an  insult  on  their  own  prudence. 
"  What  right  has  he  to  be  so  extravagant  ?  What  an  example 
to  our  servants  !"  But  your  close  neighbor  does  not  humble 
you.  You  love  your  close  neighbor  ;  you  respect  your  close 
neighbor ;  you  have  your  harmless  jest  against  him — but  he  is 
a  most  respectable  man. 

"A  letter,  sir,  and  a  parcel,  from  Sir  Peter  Hales,"  said  the 
waiter,  entering. 

The  parcel  was  a  bulky,  angular,  awkward  packet  of  brown 
paper,  sealed  once  and  tied  with  the  smallest  possible  quantity 

of  string  ;  it  was  addressed  to  Mr.  James  Holwell,  Saddler, 

Street, .     The  letter  was  to Lester,  Esq.,  and  ran  thus, 

written  in  a  very,  neat,  stiff,  Italian  character  : 

"  Dr  Sr :  I  trust  you  had  no  difficulty  in  find*  ye  Duke  of 
Cumberland's  Head  ;  it  is  an  excellent  P. 

"  I  greatly  reg1  y*  you  are  unavoidy  oblig'd  to  go  on  to  Londn  ; 
for,  otherwise  I  shd  have  had  the  sincerest  pleas6  in  seeing  you 
here  at  din',  &  introducing  you  to  Ly  Hales.  Anothp  time  I 
trust  we  may  be  more  fortunate. 


EtJGENE     ARAM.  I4t 

"As 'you  pass  thro*  ye  litte  town  of ,  exactly   21  miles 

hence,  on  the  road  to  Londn,  will  you  do  me  the  favr  to  allow 
your  serv*  to  put  the  little  parcel  I  send,  into  his  pock*,  & 
drop  it  as  direct*1.  It  is  a  bridle  I  am  forc'd  to  return.  Coun- 
try workn  are  such  bung™. 

"  I  shd  most  certainy  have  had  ye  honr  to  wait  on  you  person7, 
but  the  rain  has  given  me  a  m°  seve  cold  ;  hope  you  have 
escap'd,  tho'  by  ye  by,  you  had  no  cloke,  nor  wrappr ! 

"  My  kindest  regards  to  your  m°  excellent  unc*.  I  am  quite 
sure  he  is  the  same  fine  merry  fellw  he  always  was  !  Tell 
him  so  !  Dr  Sr,  Yours  faithy, 

"  PETER  GRINDLESCREW  HALES. 

"  P.S.     You   know  perh8  y*  poor  Jn°  Courtd,  your  uncle's  m° 

intim*  friend,  lives  in ,  the  town  in  which  your  serv*  will 

drop  ye  bride.     He  is  much  alter'd, — poor  Jn°  !" 

"  Altered  !  alteration  then  seems  the  fashion  with  my  uncle's 
friends  !  "  thought  Walter,  as  he  rang  for  the  corporal,  and  con- 
signed to  his  charge  the  unsightly  parcel. 

"  It  is  to  be  carried  twenty-one  miles  at  the  request  of  the 
gentleman  we  met  last  night, — a  most  sensible  man,  Bunting  !  " 

"  Augh — waugh, — your  honor  ! "  grunted  the  corporal,  thrust- 
ing the  bridle  very  discontentedly  into  his  pocket,  where  it 
annoyed  him  the  whole  journey,  by  incessantly  getting  between 
his  seat  of  leather  and  his  seat  of  honor.  It  is  a  comfort  to 
the  inexperienced,  when  one  man  of  the  world  smarts  from  the 
sagacity  of  another  ;  we  resign  ourselves  more  willingly  to  our 
fate.  Our  travellers  resumed  their  journey,  and  in  a  few 
minutes,  from  the  cause  we  have  before  assigned,  the  corporal 
became  thoroughly  out  of  humor. 

"Pray,  Bunting,"  said  Walter,  calling  his  attendant  to  his 
side,  "do  you  feel  sure  that  the  man  we  met  yesterday  at  the 
alehouse  is  the  same  you  saw  at  Glassdale  some  months 
ago  ? " 

"  D — n  it  !"  cried  the  corporal  quickly,  and  clapping  his 
hand  behind. 

"  How,  sir  !  " 

"Beg  pardon,  your  honor — slip  tongue,  but  this  confounded 
parcel  ! — augh — bother." 

"  Why  don't  you  carry  it  in  your  hand  ?  " 

'  'Tis  so  ungainsome,  and  be  d — d  to  it !  And  how  can  I 
hold  parcel  and  pull  in  this  beast,  which  requires  two  hands  : 
his  mouth's  as  hard  as  a  brickbat.  Augh  ! " 

"  You  have  not  answered  my  question  yet  ?  " 


142  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"  Beg  pardon,  your  honor.  Yes,  certain  sure  the  man's  the 
same  ;  phiz  not  to  be  mistaken." 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  Walter,  musing,  "  that  Aram  should 
know  a  man,  who,  if  not  a  highwayman,  as  we  suspected,  is  at 
least  of  rugged  manner  and  disreputable  appearance  ;  it  is 
strange,  too,  that  Aram  always  avoided  recurring  to  the  ac- 
quaintance, though  he  confessed  it."  With  this  he  broke  into 
a  trot,  and  the  corporal  into  an  oath. 

They  arrived  by  noon  at  the  little  town  specified  by  Sir 
Peter,  and  in  their  way  to  the  inn  (for  Walter  resolved  to  rest 
there)  passed  by  the  saddler's  house.  It  so  chanced  that  Mas- 
ter Holwell  was  an  adept  in  his  craft,  and  that  a  newly  invented 
hunting  saddle  at  the  window  caught  Walter's  notice.  The 
artful  saddler  persuaded  the  young  traveller  to  dismount  and 
look  at  "  the  most  convenientest  and  handsomest  saddle  that 
ever  was  seen  "  ;  and  the  corporal,  having  lost  no  time  in  get- 
ting rid  of  his  incumbrance,  Walter  dismissed  him  to  the  inn 
with  the  horses,  and  after  purchasing  the  saddle  in  exchange 
for  his  own,  he  sauntered  into  the  shop  to  look  at  a  new  snaf- 
fle. A  gentleman's  servant  was  in  the  shop  at  the  time,  bar- 
gaining for  a  riding  whip  ;  and  the  shop  boy,  among  others, 
showed  him  a  large  old-fashioned  one,  with  a  tarnished  silver 
handle.  Grooms  have  no  taste  for  antiquity,  and  in  spite  of 
the  silver  handle,  the  servant  pushed  it  aside  with  some  con- 
tempt. Some  jest  he  uttered  at  the  time  chanced  to  attract 
Walter's  notice  to  the  whip  ;  he  took  it  up  carelessly  and  per- 
ceived, with  great  surprise,  that  it  bore  his  own  crest,  a  bittern, 
on  the  handle.  He  examined  it  now  with  attention,  and  un- 
derneath the  crest  were  the  letters  G.  L.,  his  father's  initials. 

"  How  long  have  you  had  this  whip?"  said  he  to  the  saddler, 
concealing  the  emotion  which  this  token  of  his  lost  parent  nat- 
urally excited. 

"  Oh,  a  nation  long  time,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Holwell.  "  It  is 
a  queer  old  thing,  but  really  is  not  amiss,  if  the  silver  was 
scrubbed  up  a  bit,  and  a  new  lash  put  on  ;  you  may  have  it 
a  bargain,  sir,  if  so  be  you  have  taken  a  fancy  to  it." 

"Can  you  at  all  recollect  how  you  came  by  it?"  said  Walter 
earnestly.  "  The  fact  is,  that  I  see  by  the  crest  and  initials 
that  it  belonged  to  a  person  whom  I  have  some  interest  in  dis- 
covering." 

"  Why,  let  me  think,"  said  the  saddler,  scratching  the  tip 
of  his  right  ear  ;  "  'tis  so  long  ago  sin  I  had  it,  I  quite  forget 
how  I  came  by  it." 

"Oh,  is  it  that  whip,  John  ?"  said  the  wife,  who  had  been 


EUGENE      ARAM.  143 

attracted  from  the  hack  parlor  hy  the  sight  of  the  handsome 
young  stranger.  "  Don't  you  remember,  it's  a  many  year  ago, 
a  gentleman  who  passed  a  day  with  Squire  Courtland,  when  he 
first  came  to  settle  here, 'called  and  left  the  whip  to  have  a  new- 
thong  put  to  it  ?  But  I  fancies  he  forgot  it,  sir  (turning  to 
Walter),  for  he  never  called  for  it  again  ;  and  the  squire's  peo- 
ple said  as  how  he  was  agone  into  Yorkshire  :  so  there  the 
whip's  been  ever  sin.  I  remembers  it,  sir,  'cause  I  kept  it  in 
the  little  parlor  nearly  a  year  to  be  in  the  way  like." 

"Ah  !  I  thinks  I  do  remember  it  now,"  said  Master  Howell. 
"  I  should  think  it's  a  matter  of  twelve  yearn  ago.  I  suppose 
I  may  sell  it  without  fear  of  the  gentleman's  claiming  it  again." 

"Not  more  than  twelve  years!"  said  Walter  anxiously,  for 
it  was  some  seventeen  years  since  his  father  had  been  last 
heard  of  by  his  family. 

"  Why,  it  may  be  thirteen,  sir,  or  so,  more  or  less  ;  I  can't 
say  exactly." 

"  More  likely  fourteen  !  "  said  the  dame  ;  "  it  can't  be  much 
more,  sir  ;  we  have  only  been  a  married  fifteen  year  come  next 
Christmas  !  But  my  old  man  here  is  ten  years  older  nor  I." 

"  And  the  gentleman,  you  say,  was  at  Mr.  Courtland's  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  that  I'm  sure  of,"  replied  the  intelligent  Mrs. 
Holwell  :  "  they  said  he  had  come  lately  from  Ingee.'' 

Walter  now  despairing  of  hearing  more,  purchased  the  whip  ; 
and  blessing  the  worldly  wisdom  of  Sir  Peter  Hales,  that  had 
thus  thrown  him  on  a  clue,  which,  however  slight,  he  resolved  to 
follow  up.  he  inquired  the  way  to  Squire  Courtland's,  and  pro- 
ceeded thither  at  once. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WALTER  VISITS  ANOTHER  OF  HIS  UNCLE'S  FRIENDS. — MR. 
COURTLAND'S  STRANGE  COMPLAINT.  —  WALTER  LEARNS 
NEWS  OF  HIS  FATHER,  WHICH  SURPRISES  HIM. — THE 
CHANGE  IN  HIS  DESTINATION. 

"  Gad's  my  life,  did  you  ever  hear  the  like,  what  a  strange  man  is  this  ! 
What  you  have  possessed  me  withal,  I'll  discharge  it  amply." 

— BEN  JONSON  :  Every  Man  in  his  Humor. 

MR.  COURTLAND'S  house  was  surrounded  by  a  high  wall, 
and  stood  at  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  A  little  wooden  door, 
buried  deep  within  the  wall,  seemed  the  only  entrance.  At 


144  EtlGENE     A&AM. 

this  Walter  paused,  and  after  twice  applying  to  the  bell,  a  foot- 
man of  a  peculiarly  grave  and  sanctimonious  appearance 
opened  the  door. 

In  reply  to  Walter's  inquiries,  he  informed  him  that  Mr. 
Courtland  was  very  unwell,  and  never  saw  "company."  Walter, 
however,  producing  from  his  pocket-book  the  introductory 
letter  given  him  by  his  uncle,  slipped  it  into  the  servant's 
hand,  accompanied  by  half-a-crown,  and  begged  to  be  an- 
nounced as  a  gentleman  on  very  particular  business. 

"Well,  sir,  you  can  step  in,"  said  the  servant,  giving  way ; 
"but  my  master  is  very  poorly — very  poorly  indeed." 

"Indeed,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it ;  has  he  been  long  so  ?" 

"  Going  on  for  ten — years,  sir  ! "  replied  the  servant,  with 
great  gravity  ;  and  opening  the  door  of  the  house,  which  stood 
within  a  few  paces  of  the  wall,  on  a  singularly  flat  and  bare 
grassplot,  he  showed  him  into  a  room,  and  left  him  alone. 

The  first  thing. that  struck  Walter  in  this  apartment  was  its 
remarkable  lightness.  Though  not  large,  it  had  no  less  than 
seven  windows.  Two  sides  of  the  wall  seemed  indeed  all 
window  !  Nor  were  these  admittants  of  the  celestial  beam 
shaded  by  any  blind  or  curtain  ; 

"  The  gaudy,  babbling,  and  remorseless  day  " 

made  itself  "thoroughly  at  home  in  this  airy  chamber.  Never- 
theless, though  so  light,  it  seemed  to  Walter  anything  but 
cheerful.  The  sun  had  blistered  and  discolored  the  painting 
of  the  wainscot,  originally  of  a  pale  sea-green  ;  there  was  little 
furniture  in  the  apartment ;  one  table  in  the  centre,  some  half- 
a-dozen  chairs,  and  a  very  small  Turkey  carpet,  which  did  not 
cover  one-tenth  part  of  the  clean,  cold,  smooth  oak  boards, 
constituted  all  the  goods  and  chattels  visible  in  the  room. 
But  what  particularly  added  effect  to  the  bareness  of  all 
within,  was  the  singular  and  laborious  bareness  of  all  without. 
From  each  of  these  seven  windows,  nothing  but  a  forlorn 
green  flat  of  some  extent  was  to  be  seen  ;  there  was  neither 
tree,  nor  shrub,  nor  flower,  in  the  whole  expanse,  although  by 
several  stumps  of  trees  near  the  house,  Walter  perceived  that 
the  place  had  not  always  been  so  destitute  of  vegetable  life. 

While  he  was  yet  looking  upon  this  singular  baldness  of 
scene,  the  servant  re-entered  with  his  master's  compliments, 
and  a  message  that  he  should  be  happy  to  see  any  relation  of 
Mr.  Lester. 

Walter  accordingly  followed  the  footman  into  an  apartment 
possessing  exactly  the  same  peculiarities  as  the  former  one ; 


EUGENE     ARAM.  145 

viz.,  a  most  disproportionate  plurality  of  windows,  a  commo- 
dious scantiness  of  furniture,  and  a  prospect  without,  that 
seemed  as  if  the  house  had  been  built  in  the  middle  of  Salis- 
bury Plain. 

Mr.  Courtland  himself,  a  stout  man,  still  preserving  the  rosy 
hues  and  comely  features,  though  certainly  not  the  hilarious 
expression,  which  Lester  had  attributed  to  him,  sat  in  a  large 
chair,  close  by  the  centre  window,  which  was  open.  He  rose 
and  shook  Walter  by  the  hand  with  great  cordiality. 

"  Sir,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you  !  How  is  your  worthy  uncle  ? 
I  only  wish  he  were  with  you — you  dine  with  me,  of  course. 
Thomas,  tell  the  cook  to  add  a  tongue  and  chicken  to  the 
roast  beef — no — young  gentleman,  I  will  have  no  excuse  :  sit 
down,  sit  down  ;  pray  come  near  the  window ;  do  you  not  find 
it  dreadfully  close?  not  a  breath  of  air?  This  house  is  so 
choked  up;  don't  you  find  it  so,  eh?  Ah,  I  see,  you  can 
scarcely  gasp." 

"  My  dear  sir,  you  are  mistaken  :  I  am  rather  cold,  on  the 
contrary :  nor  did  I  ever  in  my  life  see  a  more  airy  house 
than  yours." 

"I  try  to  make  it  so,  sir,  but  I  can't  succeed;  if  you  had 
seen  what  it  was  when  I  first  bought  it !  A  garden  here,  sir ; 
a  copse  there  ;  a  wilderness,  God  wot !  at  the  back ;  and  a 
row  of  chestnut-trees  in  the  front !  You  may  conceive  the 
consequence,  sir ;  I  had  not  been  long  here,  not  two  years, 
before  my  health  was  gone,  sir,  gone — the  d — d  vegetable 
life  sucked  it  out  of  me.  The  trees  kept  away  all  the  air ;  I 
was  nearly  suffocated  without,  at  first,  guessing  the  cause. 
But  at  length,  though  not  till  I  had  been  withering  away 
for  five  years,  I  discovered  the  origin  of  my  malady.  I  went 
to  work,  sir ;  I  plucked  up  the  cursed  garden,  I  cut  down  the 
infernal  chestnuts,  I  made  a  bowling-green  of  the  diabolical 
wilderness,  but  I  fear  it  is  too  late.  I  am  dying  by  inches, — 
have  been  dying  ever  since.  The  malaria  has  effectually 
tainted  my  constitution." 

Here  Mr.  Courtland  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  shook  his  head 
with  a  most  gloomy  expression  of  countenance. 

"Indeed,  sir,"  said  Walter,  "I  should  not,  to  look  at  you, 
imagine  that  you  suffered  under  any  complaint.  You  seem 
still  the  same  picture  of  health  that  my  uncle  describes  you  to 
have  been  when  you  knew  him  so  many  years  ago." 

"Yes,  sir,  yes ;  the  confounded  malaria  fixed  the  color  to 
my  cheeks :  the  blood  is  stagnant,  sir.  Would  to  Heaven  I 
could  see  myself  a  shade  paler ! — the  blood  does  not  flow.  I 


146  EUGENE     ARAM. 

am  like  a  pool  in  a  citizen's  garden,  with  a  willow  at  each 
corner  ;  but  a  truce  to  my  complaints.  You  see,  sir,  I  am  no 
hypochondriac,  as  my  fool  of  a  doctor  wants  to  persuade  me  : 
a  hypochondriac  shudders  at  every  breath  of  air,  trembles 
when  a  door  is  open,  and  looks  upon  a  window  as  an  entrance 
of  death.  But  1,  sir,  never  can  have  enough  air  ;  thorough 
draught  or  east  wind,  it  is  all  the  same  to  me,  so  that  I  do  but 
breathe.  Is  that  like  hypochondria  ? — pshaw  !  But  tell  me, 
young  gentleman,  about  your  uncle ;  is  he  quite  well, — stout — 
hearty, — does  he  breathe  easily, — no  oppression  ?" 

"Sir,  he  enjoys  exceedingly  good  health;  he  did  please 
himself  with  the  hope  that  I  should  give  him  good  tidings  of 
yourself,  and  another  of  his  old  friends,  whom  I  accidentally 
saw  yesterday, — Sir  Peter  Hales." 

"Hales !  Peter  Hales  ! — ah  !  a  clever  little  fellow  that. 
How  delighted  Lester's  good  heart  will  be  to  hear  that  little 
Peter  is  so  improved  ;  no  longer  a  dissolute,  harum-scarum 
fellow,  throwing  away  his  money,  and  always  in  debt.  No,  no  ; 
a  respectable,  steady  character,  an  excellent  manager,  an 
active  member  of  Parliament,  domestic  in  private  life, — oh,  a 
very  worthy  man,  sir ;  a  very  worthy  man  ! " 

"  He  seems  altered,  indeed,  sir,"  said  Walter,  who  was  young 
enough  in  the  world  to  be  surprised  at  this  eulogy;  "but  is 
still  agreeable  and  fond  of  anecdote.  He  told  me  of  his  race 
with  you  for  a  thousand  guineas." 

"Ah,  don't  talk  of  those  days,"  said  Mr.  Courtland,  shaking 
his  head  pensively  :  "  it  makes  me  melancholy.  Yes,  Peter 
ought  to  recollect  that,  for  he  has  never  paid  me  to  this  day  ; 
affected  to  treat  it  as  a  jest,  and  swore  he  could  have  beat  me 
if  he  would.  But  indeed  it  was  my  fault,  sir  ;  Peter  had  not 
then  a  thousand  farthings  in  the  world  ;  and  when  he  grew 
rich,  he  became  a  steady  character,  and  I  did  not  like  to  re- 
mind him  of  our  former  follies.  Aha  !  can  I  offer  you  a  pinch 
of  snuff?  You  look  feverish,  sir;  surely  this  room  must  affect 
you,  though  you  are  too  polite  to  say  so.  Pray  open  that  door, 
and  then  this  window,  and  put  your  chair  right  between  the 
two.  You  have  no  notion  how  refreshing  the  draught  is." 

Walter  politely  declined  the  proffered  ague,  and  thinking  he 
had  now  made  sufficient  progress  in  the  acquaintance  of  this 
singular  non-hypochondriac  to  introduce  the  subject  he  had 
most  at  heart,  hastened  to  speak  of  his  father. 

"  I  have  chanced,  sir,"  said  he,  "  very  unexpectedly  upon 
something  that  once  belonged  to  my  poor  father  ";  here  he 
showed  the  whip.  "I  find  from  the  saddler  of  whom  I  bought 


EUGENE     ARAM.  147 

it,  that  the  owner  was  at  your  house  some  twelve  or  fourteen 
years  ago.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  are  aware  that  our 
family  have  heard  nothing  respecting  my  father's  fate  for  a 
considerably  longer  time  than  that  which  has  elapsed  since  you 
appear  to  have  seen  him,  if  at  least  I  may  hope  that  he  was 
your  guest,  and  the  owner  of  this  whip  ;  and  any  news  you  can 
give  me  of  him,  any  clue  by  which  he  can  possibly  be  traced, 
would  be  to  us  all — to  me  in  particular — an  inestimable  obli- 
gation." 

"  Your  father  !  "  said  Mr.  Courtland.  "  Oh, — ay,  your  uncle's 
brother.  What  was  his  Christian  name  ?  Henry?  " 

"  Geoffrey." 

"  Ay,  exactly  ;  Geoffrey  !  What  !  not  been  heard  of  ?  His 
family  not  know  where  he  is?  A  sad  thing,  sir  ;  but  he  was 
always  a  wild  fellow  ;  now  here,  now  there,  like  a  flash  of  light- 
ning. But  it  is  true,  it  is  true,  he  did  stay  a  day  here,  several 
years  ago,  when  I  first  bought  the  place.  I  can  tell  you  all 
about  it ;  but  you  seem  agitated, — do  come  nearer  the  window  : 
there,  that's  right.  Well,  sir,  it  is,  as  I  said,  a  great  many  years 
ago, — perhaps  fourteen, — and  I  was  speaking  to  the  landlord 
of  the  Greyhound  about  some  hay  he  wished  to  sell,  when  a 
gentleman  rode  into  the  yard  full  tear,  as  your  father  always 
did  ride,  and  in  getting  out  of  his  way  I  recognized  Geoffrey 
Lester.  I  did  not  know  him  well — far  from  it ;  but  I  had  seen 
him  once  or  twice  with  your  uncle,  and  though  he  was  a  strange 
pickle,  he  sang  a  good  song,  and  was  deuced  amusing.  Well, 
sir,  I  accosted  him  ;  and,  for  the  sake  of  your  uncle,  I  asked 
him  to  dine  with  me  and  take  a  bed  at  my  new  house.  Ah  !  I 
little  thought  what  a  dear  bargain  it  was  to  be  !  He  accepted 
my  invitation ;  for  I  fancy — no  offence,  sir, — there  were  few 
invitations  that  Mr.  Geoffrey  'Lester  ever  refused  to  accept. 
We  dined  tttc-b-ttte, — I  am  an  old  bachelor,  sir, — and  very  en- 
tertaining he  was,  though  his  sentiments  seemed  to  me  broader 
than  ever.  He  was  capital,  however,  about  the  tricks  he  had 
played  his  creditors, — such  manoeuvres — such  escapes  !  After 
dinner  he  asked  me  if  I  ever  corresponded  with  his  brother. 
I  told  him  no ;  that  we  were  very  good  friends,  but  never 
heard  from  each  other ;  and  he  then  said, '  Well,  I  shall  surprise 
him  with  a  visit  shortly  ;  but  in  case  you  should  unexpectedly 
have  any  communication  with  him,  don't  mention  having  seen 
me ;  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  just  returned  from  India, 
where  I  should  have  scraped  up  a  little  money,  but  that  I  spent 
it  as  fast  as  I  got  it.  However,  you  know  that  I  was  always  pro- 
verbially the  luckiest  fellow  in  the  world  (and  so,  sir,  your 


148  EUGENE     ARAM. 

father  was  !),  and  while  I  was  in  India,  I  saved  an  old  colonel's 
life  at  a  tiger-hunt;  he  went  home  shortly  afterward,  and  settled 
in  Yorkshire  ;  and  the  other  day,  on  my  return  to  England,  to 
which  ray  ill  health  drove  me,  1  learned  that  my  old  colonel  had 
died  recently,  and  left  me  a  handsome  legacy,  with  his  house  in 
Yorkshire.  I  am  now  going  down  to  Yorkshire  to  convert  the 
chattels  into  gold — to  receive  my  money  ;  and  I  shall  then 
seek  out  my  good  brother,  my  household  gods,  and,  perhaps, 
though  it's  not  likely,  settle  into  a  sober  fellow  for  the  rest  of 
my  life.'  I  don't  tell  you,  young  gentleman,  that  those  were 
your  father's  exact  words, — one  can't  remember  verbatim  so 
many  years  ago ;  but  it  was  to  that  effect.  He  left  me  the 
next  day,  and  i  never  heard  anything  more  of  him  :  to  say  the 
truth,  he  was  looking  wonderfully  yellow  and  fearfully  reduced. 
And  I  fancied  at  the  time  that  he  could  not  live  long ;  he  was 
prematurely  old,  and  decrepit  in  body,  though  gay  in  spirit ;  so 
that  I  had  tacitly  imagined,  in  never  hearing  of  him  more,  that 
he  had  departed  life.  But,  good  Heavens  !  did  you  never  hear 
of  this  legacy  ?  " 

"  Never :  not  a  word  !  "  said  Walter,  who  had  listened  to 
these  particulars  in  great  surprise.  "  And  to  what  part  of  York- 
shire did  he  say  he  was  going  ?  " 

"  That  he  did  not  mention." 

"  Nor  the  colonel's  name  ?  " 

"  Not  as  I  remember  ;  he  might,  but  I  think  not.  But  I  am 
certain  that  the  county  was  Yorkshire  ;  and  the  gentleman, 
whatever  his  name,  was  a  colonel.  Stay  .  I  recollect  one  more 
particular,  which  it  is  lucky  I  do  remember.  Your  father,  in 
giving  me,  as  I  said  before,  in  his  own  humorous  strain,  the  his- 
tory of  his  adventures,  his  hair-breadth  escapes  from  his  duns, 
the  various  disguises  and  the  numerous  aliases  he  had  assumed, 
mentioned  that  the  name  he  had  borne  in  India — and  by  which, 
he  assured  me,  he  had  made  quite  a  good  character — was 
Clarke  ;  he  also  said,  by  the  way,  that  he  still  kept  to  that 
name,  and  was  very  merry  on  the  advantages  of  having  so 
common  a  one, — '  By  which,'  he  observed  wittily,  '  he  could 
father  all  his  own  sins  on  some  other  Mr.  Clarke,  at  the  same 
time  that  he  could  seize  and  appropriate  all  the  merits  of  all 
his  other  namesakes.'  Ah,  no  offence,  but  he  was  a  sad  dog, 
that  father  of  yours !  So  you  see  that,  in  all  probability,  if  he 
ever  reached  Yorkshire,  it  was  under  the  name  of  Clarke  that 
he  claimed  and  received  his  legacy." 

"You  have  told  me  more,"  said  Walter  joyfully,  "than  we 
have  heard  since  his  disappearance ;  and  I  shall  turn  my  horses' 


EUGENE     ARAM.  149 

heads  northward  to-morrow,  by  break  of  day.  But  you  say, 
'  If  he  ever  reached  Yorkshire.'  What  should  prevent  him  ?" 

"  His  health  !  "  said  the  non-hypochondriac.  "I  should  not 
be  greatly  surprised  if — if — in  short,  you  had  better  look  at  the 
gravestones  by  the  way,  for  the  name  of  Clarke." 

"  Perhaps  you  can  give  me  the  dates,  sir,"  said  Walter,  some- 
what cast  down  by  that  melancholy  admonition. 

"  Ay  !  I'll  see — I'll  see  after  dinner  ;  the  commonness  of 
the  name  has  its  disadvantages  now.  Poor  Geoffrey  !  I  dare 
say  there  are  fifty  tombs  to  the  memory  of  fifty  Clarkes  between 
this  and  York.  But  come,  sir,  there's  the  dinner-bell." 

Whatever  might  have  been  the  maladies  entailed  upon  the 
portly  frame  of  Mr.  Courtland  by  the  vegetable  life  of  the  de- 
parted trees,  a  want  of  appetite  was  not  among  the  number. 
Whenever  a  man  is  not  abstinent  from  rule,  or  from  early  habit, 
solitude  makes  its  votaries  particularly  fond  of  their  dinner. 
They  have  no  other  event  wherewith  to  mark  their  day ;  they 
think  over  it,  they  anticipate  it,  they  nourish  its  soft  idea  in 
their  imagination  :  if  they  do  look  forward  to  anything  else 
more  than  dinner,  it  is — supper. 

Mr.  Courtland  deliberately  pinned  the  napkin  to  his  waist- 
coat, ordered  all  the  windows  to  be  thrown  open,  and  set  to 
work  like  the  good  canon  in  Gil  Bias.  He  still  retained  enough 
of  his  former  self  to  preserve  an  excellent  cook  ;  and  though 
most  of  his  viands  were  of  the  plainest,  who  does  not  know 
what  skill  it  requires  to  produce  an  unexceptionable  roast,  or  a 
blameless  broil  ? 

Half  a  tureen  of  strong  soup,  three  pounds,  at  least,  of  stewed 
carp,  all  the  under  part  of  a  sirloin  of  beef,  three  quarters  of  a 
tongue,  the  moiety  of  a  chicken,  six  pancakes,  and  a  tartlet, 
having  severally  disappeared  down  the  jaws  of  the  invalid, 

"  Et  cuncta  terrarum  subacta 
Prseter  atrocem  animum  Catonis,"  * 

he  still  called  for  two  devilled  biscuits  and  an  anchovy  ! 

When  these  were  gone,  he  had  the  wine  set  on  a  little  table 
by  the  window,  and  declared  that  the  air  seemed  closer  than 
ever.  Walter  was  no  longer  surprised  at  the  singular  nature  of 
the  non-hypochondriac's  complaint. 

Walter  declined  the  bed  that  Mr.  Courtland  offered  him, — 
though  his  host  kindly  assured  him  that  it  had  no  curtains,  and 
that  there  was  not  a  shutter  to  the  house, — upon  the  plea  of 
starting  the  next  morning  at  daybreak,  and  his  consequent  un- 

*  "  And  everything  of  earth  subdued,  except  the  resolute  mind  of  Cato." 


?5°  EUGENE      ARAM. 

willingness  to  disturb  the  regular  establishment  of  the  invalid  ; 
and  Courtland,  who  was  still  an  excellent,  hospitable,  friendly 
man,  suffered  his  friend's  nephew  to  depart  with  regret.  He 
supplied  him,  however,  by  a  reference  to  an  old  note-book,  with 
the  date  of  the  year,  and  even  month,  in  which  he  had  been  fa- 
vored by  a  visit  from  Mr.  Clarke, who,  it  seemed,  had  also  changed 
his  Christian  name  from  Geoffrey  to  one  beginning  with  D — ;-but 
whether  it  was  David  or  Daniel  the  host  remembered  not.  In 
parting  with  Walter,  Courtland  shook  his  head,  and  observed  : 

"  Entre  nous,  sir,  I  fear  this  may  be  a  wild-goose  chase.  Your 
father  was  too  facetious  to  confine  himself  to  fact — excuse  me, 
sir;  and,  perhaps,  the  colonel  and  the  legacy  were  merely  in- 
ventions pour  passer  le  temps;  there  was  only  one  reason,  indeed, 
that  made  me  fully  believe  the  story." 

"  What  was  that,  sir  ? "  asked  Walter,  blushing  deeply,  at  the 
universality  of  that  estimation  his  father  had  obtained. 

"  Excuse  me,  my  young  friend." 

"  Nay,  sir,  let  me  press  you." 

"Why,  then,  Mr.  Geoffrey  Lester  did  not  ask  me  to  lend  him 
any  money  ! " 

The  next  morning,  instead  of  repairing  to  the  gaieties  of  the 
metropolis,  Walter  had,  upon  this  dubious  clue,  altered  his  jour- 
ney northward  ;  and  with  an  unquiet  yet  sanguine  spirit,  the 
adventurous  son  commenced  his  search  after  the  fate  of  a 
father  evidently  so  unworthy  of  the  anxiety  he  had  excited. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

WALTER'S  MEDITATIONS.  —  THE  CORPORAL'S  GRIEF  AND 
ANGER. — THE  CORPORAL  PERSONALLY  DESCRIBED. — AN  EX- 
PLANATION WITH  HIS  MASTER. —  THE  CORPORAL  OPENS 
HIMSELF  TO  THE  YOUNG  TRAVELLER. — HIS  OPINIONS  ON 
LOVE  ; ON  THE  WORLD  ;  —  ON  THE  PLEASURE  AND  RESPEC- 
TABILITY OF  CHEATING  ; — ON  LADIES — AND  A  PARTICULAR 
CLASS  OF  LADIES  ; — ON  AUTHORS  ; — ON  THE  VALUE  OF 
WORDS; — ON  FIGHTING; — WITH  SUNDRY  OTHER  MATTERS  OF 
EQUAL  DELECTATION  AND  IMPROVEMENT. AN  UNEXPECTED 

EVENT. 

"  Quale  per  incertam  Lunam  sub  luce  malignS 
Est  iter."* — VIRGIL. 

THE  road  prescribed  to  our  travellers  by  the  change  in  their 
destination  led  them  back  over  a  considerable  portion  of  the 

*  "  Even  as  a  journey  by  the  unpropitious  light  of  the  uncertain  moon." 


EUGENE      ARAM.  151 

ground  they  had  already  traversed  ;  and  since  the  corporal 
took  care  that  they  should  remain  some  hours  in  the  place 
where  they  dined,  night  fell  upon  them  as  they  found  them- 
selves in  the  midst  of  the  same  long  and  dreary  stage  in  which 
they  had  encountered  Sir  Peter  Hales  and  the  two  suspected 
highwaymen. 

Walter's  mind  was  full  of  the  project  on  which  he  was  bent. 
The  reader  can  fully  comprehend  how  vivid  were  the  emotions 
called  up  by  the  hope  of  a  solution  to  the  enigma  of  his  father's 
fate  ;  and  sanguinely  did  he  now  indulge  those  intense  medita- 
tions with  which  the  imaginative  minds  of  the  young  always 
brood  over  every  more  favorite  idea,  until  they  exalt  the  hope 
into  a  passion.  Everything  connected  with  this  strange  and 
roving  parent  had  possessed  for  the  breast  of  his  son  not  only  an 
anxious,  but  indulgent  interest.  The  judgment  of  a  young  man 
is  always  inclined  to  sympathize  with  the  wilder  and  more  en- 
terprising order  of  spirits  ;  and  Walter  had  been  at  no  loss  for 
secret  excuses  wherewith  to  defend  the  irregular  life  and  reck- 
less habits  of  his  parent.  Amidst  all  his  father's  evident  and 
utter  want  of  principle,  Walter  clung  with  a  natural  and  self- 
deceptive  partiality  to  the  few  traits  of  courage  or  generosity 
which  relieved,  if  they  did  not  redeem,  his  character  ;  traits 
which,  with  a  character  of  that  stamp,  are  so  often,  though  al- 
ways so  unprofitably,  blended,  and  which  generally  cease  with 
the  commencement  of  age.  He  now  felt  elated  by  the  convic- 
tion, as  he  had  always  been  inspired  by  the  hope,  that  it  was  to 
be  his  lot  to  discover  one  whom  he  still  believed  living,  and 
whom  he  trusted  to  find  amended.  The  same  intimate  persua- 
sion of  the  "good  luck"  of  Geoffrey  Lester,  which  all  who 
had  known  him  appeared  to  entertain,  was  felt  even  in  a  more 
credulous  and  earnest  degree  by  his  son.  Walter  gave  way 
now,  indeed,  to  a  variety  of  conjectures  as  to  the  motives 
which  could  have  induced  his  father  to  persist  in  the 
concealment  of  his  fate  after  his  return  to  England  ;  but 
such  of  those  conjectures  as,  if  the  more  rational,  were 
?.lso  the  more  despondent,  he  speedily  and  resolutely 
dismissed.  Sometimes  he  thought  that  his  father,  on  learning 
the  death  of  the  wife  he  had  abandoned,  might  have  been  pos- 
sessed with  a  remorse  which  rendered  him  unwilling  to  dis- 
close himself  to  the  rest  of  his  family,  and  a  feeling  that  the 
main  tie  of  home  was  broken  ;  sometimes  he  thought  that  the 
wanderer  had  been  disappointed  in  his  expected  legacy,  and, 
dreading  the  attacks  of  his  creditors,  or  unwilling  to  throw 
himself  once  more  on  the  generosity  of  his  brother,  had  again 


1CJ2      •  EUGENE     ARAM. 

suddenly  quitted  England,  and  entered  on  some  enterprise  or  oc- 
cupation abroad.  It  was  also  possible,  to  one  so  reckless  and 
changeful,  that,  even  after  receiving  the  legacy,  a  proposition 
from  some  wild  comrade  might  have  hurried  him  away  on  any 
continental  project  at  the  mere  impulse  of  the  moment,  for  the 
impulse  of  the  moment  had  always  been  the  guide  of  his  life ; 
and,  once  abroad,  he  might  have  returned  to  India,  and  in  new 
connections  forgotten  the  old  ties  at  home.  Letters  from 
abroad,  too,  miscarry  ;  and  it  was  not  improbable  that  the 
wanderer  might  have  written  repeatedly,  and,  receiving  no 
answer  to  his  communications,  imagined  that  the  dissolute- 
ness of  his  life  had  deprived  him  of  the  affections  of  his  fami- 
ly ;  and  deserving  so  well  to  have  the  proffer  of  renewed  in- 
tercourse rejected,  believed  that  it  actually  was  so.  These, 
and  a  hundred  similar  conjectures,  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of 
the  young  traveller  ;  but  the  chances  of  a  fatal  accident,  or 
sudden  death,  he  pertinaciously  refused  at  present  to  include 
in  the  number  of  probabilities.  Had  his  father  been  seized 
with  a  mortal  illness  on  the  road,  was  it  not  likely  that,  in  the 
remorse  occasioned  in  the  hardiest  by  approaching  death,  he 
would  have  written  to  his  brother,  and,  recommending  his 
child  to  his  care,  have  apprised  him  of  the  addition  to  his  for- 
tune ?  Walter,  then,  did  not  meditate  embarrassing  his  pres- 
ent journey  by  those  researches  among  the  dead  which  the 
worthy  Courtland  had  so  considerately  recommended  to  his 
prudence  :  should  his  expedition,  contrary  to  his  hopes,  prove 
wholly  unsuccessful,  it  might  then  be  well  to  retrace  his 
steps  and  adopt  the  suggestion.  But  what  man,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-one,  ever  took  much  precaution  on  the  darker  side  of 
a  question  in  which  his  heart  was  interested  ? 

With  what  pleasure,  escaping  from  conjecture  to  a  more  ul- 
timate conclusion,  did  he,  in  recalling  those  words,  in  which 
his  father  had  more  than  hinted  to  Courtland  of  his  future 
amendment,  contemplate  recovering  a  parent  made  wise  by 
years  and  sober  by  misfortunes,  and  restoring  him  to  a  hearth 
of  tranquil  virtues  and  peaceful  enjoyments  !  He  imaged  to 
himself  a  scene  of  that  domestic  happiness  which  is  so  perfect 
in  our  dreams,  because  in  our  dreams  monotony  is  always  ex- 
cluded from  the  picture.  And,  in  this  creation  of  Fancy,  the 
form  of  Ellinor — his  bright-eyed  and  gentle  cousin — was  not 
the  least  conspicuous.  Since  his  altercation  with  Madeline, 
the  love  he  had  once  thought  so  ineffaceable  had  faded  into  a 
dim  and  sullen  hue  ;  and,  in  proportion  as  the  image  of  Mad- 
eline grew  indistinct,  that  of  her  sister  became  more  brilliant. 


EUGENE      ARAM.  153 

Often,  now,  as  he  rode  slowly  onward,  in  the  quiet  of  the  deep- 
ening night,  and  the  mellow  stars  softening  all  on  which  they 
shone,  he  pressed  the  little  token  of  Ellinor's  affection  to  his 
heart,  and  wondered  that  it  was  only  within  the  last  few  days 
he  had  discovered  that  her  eyes  were  more  beautiful  than 
Madeline's  and  her  smile  more  touching.  Meanwhile  the 
redoubted  corporal,  who  was  by  no  means  pleased  with  the 
change  in  his  master's  plans,  lingered  behind,  whist- 
ling the  most  melancholy  tune  in  his  collection.  No 
young  lady,  anticipative  of  balls  or  coronets,  had  ever 
felt  more  complacent  satisfaction  on  a  journey  to  London 
than  that  which  had  cheered  the  athletic  breast  of  the  veteran 
on  finding  himself,  at  last,  within  one  day's  gentle  march  of 
the  metropolis.  And  no  young  lady,  suddenly  summoned 
back  in  the  first  flush  of  her  dtbut  by  an  unseasonable  fit  of 
gout  or  economy  in  papa,  ever  felt  more  irreparably  aggrieved 
than  now  did  the  dejected  corporal.  His  master  had  not  yet 
even  acquainted  him  with  the  cause  of  the  -countermarch  ; 
and,  in  his  own  heart,  he  believed  it  nothing  but  the  wanton 
levity  and  unpardonable  fickleness  "common  to  all  them  ere 
boys  afore  they  have  seen  the  world."  He  certainly  consid- 
ered himself  a  singularly  ill-used  and  injured  man,  and  draw- 
ing himself  up  to  his  full  height,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  with 
which  Heaven  should  be  acquainted  at  the  earliest  possible  op- 
portunity, he  indulged,  as  we  said  before,  in  the  melancholy 
consolation  of  a  whistled  death-dirge,  occasionally  interrupted 
by  a  long-drawn  interlude,  half  sigh,  half  snuffle,  of  his  favor- 
ite augh — baugh. 

And  here,  we  remember,  that  we  have  not  as  yet  given  to 
our  reader  a  fitting  portrait  of  the  corporal  on  horseback. 
Perhaps  no  better  opportunity  than  the  present  may  occur ; 
and  perhaps,  also,  Corporal  Bunting,  as  well  as  Melrose  Abbey, 
may  seem  a  yet  more  interesting  picture  when  viewed  by  the 
pale  moonlight. 

The  corporal,  then,  wore  on  his  head  a  small  cocked  hat, 
which  had  formerly  belonged  to  the  colonel  of  the  Forty-sec- 
ond— the  prints  of  my  uncle  Toby  may  serve  to  suggest  its 
shape  ;  it  had  once  boasted  a  feather — that  was  gone  :  but  the 
gold  lace,  though  tarnished,  and  the  cockade,  though  battered, 
still  remained.  From  under  this  shade  the  profile  of  the  cor- 
poral assumed  a  particular  aspect  of  heroism  ;  though  a  good- 
looking  man  in  the  main,  it  was  his  air,  height,  and  complex- 
ion, which  made  him  so  ;  and,  unlike  Lucian's  one-eyed 
prince,  a  side  view  was  not  the  most  favorable  point  in  which 


154  EUGENE      ARAM. 

his  features  could  be  regarded.  His  eyes,  which  were  small  and 
shrewd,  were  half  hid  by  a  pair  of  thick,  shaggy  brows,  which, 
while  he  whistled,  he  moved  to  and  fro,  as  a  horse  moves  his 
ears  when  he  gives  warning  that  he  intends  to  shy  ;  his  nose 
was  straight  ;  so  far  so  good ;  but  then  it  did  not  go  far 
enough  ;  for  though  it  seemed  no  despicable  proboscis  in  front, 
somehow  or  another  it  appeared  exceedingly  short  in  pro- 
file :  to  make  up  for  this,  the  upper  lip  was  of  a  length  the 
more  striking  from  being  exceedingly  straight  ;  it  had  learned 
to  hold  itself  upright,  and  make  the  most  of  its  length  as  well 
as  its  master  !  His  under  lip,  alone  protruded  in  the  act  of 
whistling,  served  yet  more  markedly  to  throw  the  nose  into  the 
background  ;  and,  as  for  the  chin — talk  of  the  upper  lip 
being  long  indeed ! — the  chin  would  have  made  two  of  it ; 
such  a  chin  !  so  long,  so  broad,  so  massive,  had  it  been 
put  on  a  dish  it  might  have  passed,  without  discredit,  for  a 
round  of  beef  !  and  it  looked  yet  larger  than  it  was  from 
the  exceeding  tightness  of  the  stiff  black-leather  stock  below, 
which  forced  forth  all  the  flesh  it  encountered,  into  another 
chin — a  remove  to  the  round  !  The  hat,  being  somewhat  too 
small  for  the  corporal,  and  being  cocked  knowingly  in  front,  left 
the  hinder  half  of  the  head  exposed.  And  the  hair,  carried  into 
a  club  according  to  the  fashion,  lay  thick,  and  of  a  grizzled 
black,  on  the  brawny  shoulders  below.  The  veteran  was 
dressed  in  a  blue  coat,  originally  a  frock  ;  but  the  skirts 
having  once,  to  the  imminent  peril  of  the  place  they  guarded, 
caught  fire,  as  the  corporal  stood  basking  himself  at  Peter  Deal- 
try's,  had  been  so  far  amputated  as  to  leave  only  the  stump 
of  a  tail,  which  just  covered,  and  no  more,  that  part  which 
neither  Art  in  bipeds  nor  Nature  in  quadrupeds  loves  to  leave 
wholly  exposed.  And  that  part,  ah,  how  ample  !  Had  Listen 
seen  it,  he  would  have  hid  forever  his  diminished — opposite  to 
head !  No  wonder  the  corporal  had  been  so  annoyed  by  the 

parcel  of  the  previous  day,  a  coat  so  short,  and  a ;  but 

no  matter,  pass  we  to  the  rest  !  It  was  not  only  in  its  skirts 
that  this  wicked  coat  was  deficient ;  the  corporal,  who  had 
within  the  last  few  years  thriven  lustily  in  the  inactive  serenity 
of  Grassdale,  had  outgrown  it  prodigiously  across  the  chest 
and  girth  ;  nevertheless,  he  managed  to  button  it  up.  And 
thus  the  muscular  proportions  of  the  wearer,  bursting  forth  in 
all  quarters,  gave  him  the  ludicrous  appearance  of  a  gigantic 
schoolboy.  His  wrists,  and  large  sinewy  hands,  both  employed 
at  the  bridle  of  his  hard-mouthed  charger,  were  markedly 
visible  ;  for  it  was  the  corporal's  custom,  whenever  he  came  to 


EUGENE      ARAM.  155 

an  obscure  part  of  the  road,  carefully  to  take  off,  and  prudently 
to  pocket,  a  pair  of  scrupulously  clean  white  leather  gloves, 
which  smartened  up  his  appearance  prodigiously  in  passing 
through  the  towns  in  their  route.  His  breeches  were  of  yellow 
buckskin,  and  ineffably  tight  ;  his  stockings  were  of  gray 
worsted  ;  and  a  pair  of  laced  boots,  that  reached  the  ascent  of 
a  very  mountainous  calf,  but  declined  any  further  progress, 
completed  his  attire. 

Fancy  then  this  figure,  seated  with  laborious  and  unswerving 
perpendicularity  on  a  a  clemi-pique  saddle,  ornamented  with  a 
huge  pair  of  well-stuffed  saddle-bags,  and  holsters  revealing 
the  stocks  of  a  brace  of  immense  pistols,  the  horse  with  its 
obstinate  mouth  thrust  out,  and  the  bridle  drawn  as  tight  as  a 
bowstring  !  its  ears  laid  sullenly  down,  as  if,  like  the  corporal, 
it  complained  of  going  to  Yorkshire  ;  and  its  long,  thick  tail, 
not  set  up  in  a  comely  and  well-educated  arch,  but  hanging 
sheepishly  down,  as  if  resolved  that  its  buttocks  should  at  least 
be  better  covered  than  its  master's  ! 

And  now,  reader,  it  is  not  our  fault  if  you  cannot  form 
some  conception  of  the  physical  perfections  of  the  corporal 
and  his  steed. 

The  revery  of  the  contemplative  Bunting  was  interrupted  by 
the  voice  of  his  master  calling  upon  him  to  approach. 

"  Well,  well,"  muttered  he,  "the  younker  can't  expect  one  as 
close  at  his  heels  is  if  we  were  trotting  into  Lunnon,  which  we 
might  be  at  this  time,  sure  enough,  if  he  had  not  been  so  d — d 
flighty — augh  !  " 

"Bunting,  I  say,  do  you  hear?" 

"  Yes,  your  honor,  yes  ;  this  ere  horse  is  so  nation  sluggish." 

"  Sluggish  !  why,  I  thought  he  was  too  much  the  reverse, 
Bunting.  I  thought  he  was  one  rather  requiring  the  bridle 
than  the  spur." 

"  Augh  !  your  honor,  he's  slow  when  he  should  not,  and  fast 
when  he  should  not :  changes  his  mind  from  pure  whim,  or  pure 
spite  ;  new  to  the  world,  your  honor,  that's  all ;  a  different 
thing  if  properly  broke.  There  be  a  many  like  him  !" 

"You  mean  to  be  personal,  Mr.  Bunting,"  said  Walter, 
laughing  at  the  evident  ill-humor  of  his  attendant. 

"  Augh  !  indeed  and  no  ! — I  daren't — a  poor  man  like  me — • 
go  for  to  presume  to  be  personal, — unless  I  get  hold  of  a 
poorer ! " 

"  Why,  Bunting,  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you  would  be 
so  ungenerous  as  to  affront  a  man  because  he  was  poorer  than 
you  ? — fie  !  " 


156  EUGENE      ARAM. 

"  Whaugh,  your  honor  !  and  is  not  that  the  very  reason  why 
I'd  affront  him  ?  Surely,  it  is  not  my  betters  I  should  affront ; 
that  would  be  ill-bred,  your  honor, — quite  want  of  discipline." 

"  But  we  owe  it  to  our  great  Commander,"  said  Walter,  "to 
love  all  men." 

"  Augh  !  sir,  that's  very  good  maxim, — none  better — but 
shows  ignorance  of  the  world,  sir, — great  ! 

"  Bunting,  your  way  of  thinking  is  quite  disgraceful.  Do 
you  know,  sir,  that  it  is  the  Bible  you  were  speaking  of  ?  " 

"  Augh,  sir !  but  the  Bible  was  addressed  to  them  Jew 
creturs !  Howsomever,  its  an  excellent  book  for  the  poor  ; 
keeps  'em  in  order,  favors  discipline, — none  more  so." 

"  Hold  your  tongue.  I  called  you,  Bunting,  because  I  think 
I  heard  you  say  you  had  once  been  at  York.  Do  you  know 
what  towns  we  shall  pass  on  our  road  thither?  " 

"  Not  I,  your  honor  ;  it's  a  mighty  long  way.  What  would 
the  squire  think? — just  at  Lunnon,  too  !  Could  have  learned 
the  whole  road,  sir,  inns  and  all,  if  you  had  but  gone  on  to 
Lunnon  first.  Howsomever,  young  gentlemen  will  be  hasty, 
no  confidence  in  those  older,  and  who  are  experienced  in  the 
world.  I  knows  what  I  knows,"  and  the  corporal  recommenced 
his  whistle. 

"  Why,  Bunting,  you  seem  quite  discontented  at  my  change 
of  journey.  Are  you  tired  of  riding,  or  were  you  very  eager 
to  get  to  town  ?  " 

"Augh  !  sir ;  I  was  only  thinking  of  what's  best  for  your 
honor, — I !  'Tis  not  for  me  to  like  or  dislike.  Howsomever, 
the  horses,  poor  creturs,  must  want  rest  for  some  days. 
Them  dumb  animals  can't  go  on  for  ever,  bumpety,  bumpety, 
as  your  honor  and  I  do.  Whaugh  !  " 

"It  is  very  true,  Bunting ;  and  I  have  had  some  thoughts 
of  sending  you  home  again  with  the  horses,  and  travelling 
post." 

"  Eh  !"  grunted  the  corporal,  opening  his  eyes,  "  hopes  your 
honor  ben't  serious." 

"Why,  i(you  continue  to  look  so  serious,  I  must  be  serious 
too.  You  understand,  Bunting?" 

"  Augh  !  and  that's  all,  your  honor,"  cried  the  corporal, 
brightening  up  ;  "  shall  look  merry  enough  to-morrow,  when 
one's  in,  as  it  were,  like,  to  the  change  of  the  road.  But  you  see, 
sir,  it  took  me  by  surprise.  Said  I  to  myself,  says  I,  it  is  an  odd 
thing  for  you,  Jacob  Bunting,  on  the  faith  of  a  man,  it  is  !  to 
go  tramp  here,  tramp  there,  without  knowing  why  or  where- 
fore, as  if  you  were  still  a  private  in  the  Forty-second,  'stead  of 


EUGENE     ARAM.  157 

a  retired  corporal.  You  see,  your  honor,  my  pride  was  a-hurt ; 
but  it's  all  over  now  ;  only  spites  those  beneath  me  ;  I  knows 
the  world  at  my  time  o'  life." 

"  Well,  Bunting,  when  you  learn  the  reason  of  my  change  of 
plan,  you'll  be  perfectly  satisfied  that  I  do  quite  right.  In  a 
word,  you  know  that  my  father  has  been  long  missing  ;  I  have 
found  a  clue  by  which  I  yet  hope  to  trace  him.  This  is  the 
reason  of  my  journey  to  Yorkshire." 

"Augh!"  said  the  corporal,  "and  a  very  good  reason: 
"  you're  a  most  excellent  son,  sir  ;  and  Lunnon  so  nigh  !  " 

"  The  thought  of  London  seems  to  have  bewitched  you. 
Did  you  expect  to  find  the  streets  of  gold  since  you  were 
there  last  ? " 

"  A — well,  sir  ;  I  hears  they  be  greatly  improved." 

"  Pshaw  !  you  talk  of  knowing  the  world,  Bunting,  and  yet 
you  pant  to  enter  it  with  all  the  inexperience  of  a  boy.  Why, 
even  I  could  set  you  an  example." 

"  'Tis  cause  I  knows  the  world,"  said  the  corporal,  exceed- 
ingly nettled,  "  that  I  wants  to  get  back  to  it.  I  have  heard  of 
some  spoonies  as  never  kist  a  girl,  but  never  heard  of  any 
one  who  had  kist  a  girl  once  that  did  not  long  to  be  at 
it  again." 

"And  I  suppose,  Mr.  Profligate,  it  is  that  longing  which 
makes  you  so  hot  for  London  ? " 

"There  have  been  worse  longings  nor  that,"  quoth  the 
corporal  gravely. 

"  Perhaps  you  meditate  marrying  one  of  the  London  belles  ; 
an  heiress, — eh  ? " 

"Can't  but  say,"  said  the  corporal  very  solemnly,  "but  that 
might  be  'ticed  to  marry  a  fortin,if  so  be  she  was  young,  pretty, 
good-tempered,  and  fell  desperately  in  love  with  me, — best 
quality  of  all." 

"  You're  a  modest  fellow." 

"Why,  the  longer  a  man  lives,  the  more  knows  his  value; 
would  not  sell  myself  a  bargain  now,  whatever  might  at  twenty- 
one." 

"  At  that  rate  you  would  be  beyond  all  price  at  seventy," 
said  Walter.  "  But  now  tell  me,  Bunting,  were  you  ever  in 
love, — really  and  honestly  in  love?" 

"  Indeed,  your  honor,"  said  the  corporal,  "  I  have  been  over 
head  and  ears ;  but  that  was  afore  I  learnt  to  swim.  Love's 
very  like  bathing.  At  first  we  go  souse  to  the  bottom,  but  if 
we're  not  drowned  then,  we  gather  pluck,  grow  calm,  strike 
out  gently,  and  make  a  deal  pleasanter  thing  of  it  afore  we've 


158  EUGENE     ARAM. 

done.  I'll  tell  you,  sir,  what  I  thinks  of  love :  'twixt  you  and 
me,  sir,  'tis  not  that  great  thing  in  life  boys  and  girls  want 
to  make  it  out  to  be  :  if  'twere  one's  dinner,  that  would  be 
summut,  for  one  can't  do  without  that ;  but  lauk,  sir,  love's  all 
in  the  fancy.  One  does  not  eat  it,  nor  drink  it :  and  as  for  the 
rest, — why  it's  bother  !  " 

"Bunting,  you're  a  beast,"  said  Walter, in  a  rage  ;  for  though 
thfc  corporal  had  come  off  with  a  slight  rebuke  for  his  sneer  at 
religion,  we  grieve  to  say  that  an  attack  on  the  sacredness  of 
love  seemed  a  crime  beyond  all  toleration  to  the  theologian  of 
twenty-one. 

The  corporal  bowed,  and  thrust  his  tongue  in  his  cheek. 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  moments. 

"And  what,"  said  Walter,  for  his  spirits  were  raised,  and 
he  liked  recurring  to  the  quaint  shrewdness  of  the  corporal, 
"and  what,  after  all,  is  the  great  charm  of  the  world,  that  you 
so  much  wished  to  return  to  it?" 

"Augh!"  replied  the  corporal,  "'tis  a  pleasant  thing  to 
look  about  un  with  all  one's  eyes  open  ;  rogue  here,  rogue 
there, — keeps  one  alive  ;  life  in  Lunnon,  life  in  a  village — all 
the  difference  'twixt  healthy  walk  and  a  doze  in  arm-chair  ; 
by  the  faith  of  a  man,  'tis  !  " 

"  What !  it  is  pleasant  to  have  rascals  about  one  ?  " 

"  Sure/y  yes,"  returned  the  corporal  dryly  :  "  what  so  de- 
lightful like  as  to  feel  one's  cliverness  and  'bility  all  set  an 
end — bristling  up  like  a  porkypine  ?  Nothing  makes  a  man 
tread  so  light,  feel  so  proud,  breathe  so  briskly,  as  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  has  all  his  wits  about  him,  that  he's  a  match  for 
any  one,  that  the  divil  himself  could  not  take  him  in ! " 

Walter  laughed. 

"And  to  feel  one  is  likely  to  be  cheated  is  the  pleasantest 
way  of  passing  one's  time  in  town,  Bunting,  eh?  " 

"  Augh  !  and  in  cheating  too  !  "  answered  the  corporal ; 
"  'cause  you  sees,  sir,  there  be  two  ways  o'  living  ;  one  to 
cheat, — one  to  be  cheated.  'Tis  pleasant  enough  to  be  cheated 
for  a  little  while,  as  the  younkers  are,  and  as  you'll  be,  your 
honor;  but  that's  a  pleasure  don't  last  long;  t'other  lasts  all 
your  life  ;  dare  say  your  honor's  often  heard  rich  gentlemen  say 
to  their  sons, '  You  ought,  for  your  own  happiness'  sake,  like,  my 
lad,  to  have  summut  to  do  ;  ought  to  have  some  profession,  be 
you  niver  so  rich':  very  true,  your  honor;  and  what  does  that 
mean  ?  Why,  it  means  that,  'stead  of  being  idle  and  cheated, 
the  boy  ought  to  be  busy,  and  cheat.  Augh  ! " 

"Must  a  man  who  follows  a  profession  necessarily  cheat,  then  ?" 


KUGENE     ARAM.  159 

"  Baugh  !  can  your  honor  ask  that  ?  Does  not  the  lawyer 
cheat  ?  and  the  doctor  cheat  ?  and  the  parson  cheat,  more 
than  any?  And  that's  the  reason  they  all  takes  so  much  in- 
t'rest  in  their  profession — bother  ! " 

"But  the  soldier?  you  say  nothing  of  him." 

"Why,  the  soldier,"  said  the  corporal,  with  dignity, — "the 
private  soldier,  poor  fellow  !  is  only  cheated ;  but  when  he 
comes  for  to  get  for  to  be  as  high  as  a  corp'ral,  or  a  sargent, 
he  comes  for  to  get  to  bully  others  and  to  cheat.  Augh  !  then, 
'tis  not  for  the  privates  to  cheat ;  that  would  be  "sumption,  in- 
deed,— save  us !  " 

"  The  general,  then,  cheats  more  than  any,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  'Course,  your  honor  ;  he  talks  to  the  world  'bout  honor, 
an'  glory,  and  love  of  his  country,  and  such  like  !  Augh  !  that's 
proper  cheating  ! " 

"  You're  a  bitter  fellow,  Mr.  Bunting.  And,  pray,  what  do 
you  think  of  the  ladies  ;  are  they  as  bad  as  the  men  ? " 

"  Ladies — augh  !  when  they're  married — yes !  but  of  all 
them  ere  creturs,  I  respects  the  kept  ladies  the  most  ;  on  the 
faith  of  a  man,  I  do !  Gad  !  how  well  they  knows  the  world. 
One  quite  envies  the  she-rogues ;  they  beats  the  wives  hollow  ! 
Augh  !  and  your  honor  should  see  how  they  fawns,  and  flatters, 
and  butters  up  a  man,  and  makes  him  think  they  loves  him 
like  winkey,  all  the  time  they  ruins  him  !  They  kisses  money 
out  of  the  miser,  and  sits  in  their  satins,  while  the  wife — 'drot 
her ! — sulks  in  a  gingham.  Oh,  they  be  cliver  creturs.  and 
they'll  do  what  they  likes  with  Old  Nick,  when  they  gets  there, 
for  'tis  the  old  gentlemen  they  cozens  the  best ;  and  then,"  con- 
tinued the  corporal,  waxing  more  and  more  loquacious, — for 
his  appetite  in  talking  grew  with  that  it  fed  on, — "  then  there 
be  another  set  o'  queer  folks  you'll  see  in  Lunnun,  sir,  that  is, 
if  you  falls  in  with  'em, — hang  all  together,  quite  in  a  clink.  I 
seed  lots  on  'em  when  lived  with  the  colonel — Colonel  Dysart, 
you  knows — augh  ?  " 

"  And  what  are  they  ?  " 

"  Rum  ones,  your  honor  ;  what  they  calls  authors." 

"Authors  !  what  the  deuce  had  you  or  the  colonel  to  do  with 
authors?" 

"Augh  !  then,  the  colonel  was  a  very  fine  gentleman,  what 
the  larned  calls  a  my-seen-ass  ;  wrote  little  songs  himself — 
'crossticks,  you  knows,  your  honor ;  once  he  made  a  play — 
'cause  why  ? — he  lived  with  an  actress  !  " 

"  A  very  good  reason,  indeed,  for  emulating  Shakespeare ; 
and  did  the  play  succeed  ? " 


l6o  EUGENE      ARAM. 

"Fancy  it  did,  your  honor;  for  the  colonel  was  a  dab  with 
the  scissors." 

"  Scissors  !  the  pen  you  mean  ?" 

"  No  !  that's  what  the  dirty  authors  makes  plays  with  ;  a  lord 
and  a  colonel,  my-seen-asses,  always  takes  the  scissors." 

"How!" 

"  Why,  the  colonel's  lady  had  lots  of  plays,  and  she  marked 
a  scene  here,  a  jest  there,  a  line  in  one  place,  a  bit  of  blarney  in 
t'other  ;  and  the  colonel  sat  by  with  a  great  paper  book,  cut 
'em  out,  pasted  them  in  book.  Augh  !  but  the  colonel  pleased 
the  town  mightily." 

"  Well,  so  he  saw  a  great  many  authors ;  and  did  not  they 
please  you  ? " 

"  Why,  they  did  be  so  d — d  quarrelsome, "said  the  corporal ; 
"  vvringle  wrangle,  wrongle,  snap,  growl,  scratch  ;  that's  not 
•what  a  man  of  the  world  does  ;  man  of  the  world  niver  quar- 
rels ;  then,  too,  these  creturs  always  fancy  you  forgets  that 
their  father  was  a  clargyman  ;  they  always  thinks  more  of  their 
family,  like,  than  their  writings;  and 'if  they  does  not  get 
money  when  they  wants  it,  they  bristles  up  and  cries,  '  Not 
treated  like  a  gentleman,  by  G —  ! '  Yet,  after  all,  they've  a 
deal  of  kindness  in  'em,  if  you  knows  how  to  manage  'em — augh  ! 
but,  cat-kindness, — paw  to-day,  claw  to-morrow.  And,  then, 
they  marries  young — the  poor  things  ! — and  have  a  power  of 
children,  and  live  on  the  fame  and  fortin  they  are  to  get  one  of 
these  days  ;  for,  my  eye  !  they  be  the  most  sanguines  folks 
alive  ! " 

"Why,  Bunting,  what  an  observer  you  have  been!  Who 
could  ever  have  imagined  that  you  had  made  yourself  master 
of  so  many  varieties  in  men  ! " 

"  Augh,  your  honor,  I  had  nothing  to  do  when  I  was  the 
colonel's  valley  but  to  take  notes  to  ladies  and  make  use  of  my 
eyes.  Always  a  'flective  man." 

"  It  is  odd  that,  with  all  your  abilities,  you  did  not  provide 
better  for  yourself." 

"  'Twas  not  my  fault,"  said  the  corporal  quickly ;  "  but, 
somehow,  do  what  will,  'tis  not  always  the  cliverest  as  foresees 
the  best.  But  I  be  young  yet,  your  honor  ! " 

Walter  stared  at  the  corporal,  and  laughed  outright :  the 
corporal  was  exceedingly  piqued. 

"  Augh  !  mayhap  you  thinks,  sir,  that  'cause  not  so  young  as 
you,  not  young  at  all  ;  but  what's  forty,  or  fifty,  or  fifty-five,  in 
public  life?  Never  hear  much  of  men  afore  then.  'Tis  the 
autumn  that  reaps,  spring  sows,  augh  ! — bother  t  " 


EUGENE     ARAM.  l6t 

"  Very  true,  and  very  poetical.  I  see  you  did  not  live  among 
authors  for  nothing." 

"  I  knows  summut  of  language,  your  honor,"  quoth  the  cor- 
poral pedantically. 

"  It  is  evident." 

"  For,  to  be  a  man  of  the  world,  sir,  must  know  all  the  ins 
and  outs  of  speechifying  ;  'tis  words,  sir,  that  makes  another 
man's  mare  go  your  road.  Augh  !  that  must  have  been  acliver 
man  as  invented  language  ;  wonders  who 'twas — mayhap  Moses, 
your  honor  ?" 

"  Never  mind  who  it  was,"  said  Walter  gravely  ;  "  use  the 
gift  discreetly." 

"  Umph  !  "  said  the  corporal.  "  Yes,  your  honor,"  renewed 
he,  after  a  pause,  "it  be  a  marvel  to  think  on  how  much  a  man 
does  in  the  way  of  cheating  as  has  the  gift  of  the  gab.  Wants 
a  missis,  talks  her  over  ;  wants  your  purse,  talks  you  out  on  it; 
wants  a  place,  talks  himself  into  it.  What  makes  the  parson  ? — 
words  ;  the  lawyer  ? — words  ;  the  parliament-man  ? — words  ! 
Words  can  ruin  a  country,  in  the  big  house  ;  words  save  souls, 
in  the  pulpits  ;  words  make  even  them  ere  authors,  poorcreturs  ! 
in  every  man's  mouth.  Augh  !  sir,  take  note  of  the  words,  and 
the  things  will  take  care  of  themselves — bother  !  " 

"  Your  reflections  amaze  me,  Bunting,"  said  Walter,  smiling. 
"  But  the  night  begins  to  close  in  :  I  trust  we  shall  not  meet 
with  any  misadventure." 

"  'Tis  an  ugsome  bit  of  road  !  "  said  the  corporal,  looking 
round  him. 

"  The  pistols  ? " 

"  Primed  and  loaded,  your  honor." 

"  After  all,  Bunting,  a  little  skirmish  would  be  no  bad  sport — • 
eh  ?  especially  to  an  old  soldier  like  you." 

"  Augh,  baugh  !  'tis  no  pleasant  work  fighting,  without  pay 
at  least  ;  'tis  not  like  love  and  eating,  your  honor,  the  better 
for  being  what  they  calls  '  gratis  ! ' ' 

"  Yet  I  have  heard  you  talk  of  the  pleasure  of  fighting  ;  not 
for  pay,  Bunting,  but  for  your  king  and  country  !  " 

"  Augh  !  and  that's  when  I  wanted  to  cheat  the  poor  creturs 
at  Grassdale,  your  honor  ;  don't  take  the  liberty  to  talk  stuff 
to  my  master  !  " 

They  continued  thus  to  beguile  the  way  till  Walter  again 
sank  into  a  revery,  while  the  corporal,  who  began  more  and 
more  to  dislike  the  aspect  of  the  ground  they  had  entered  on, 
still  rode  by  his  side. 

The  road  was  heavy,  and  wound  down  the  long  hill  which 


162  EUGENE     ARAM. 

had  stricken  so  much  dismay  into  the  corporal's  stout  heart  on 
the  previous  day  when  he  had  beheld  its  commencement  at  the 
extremity  of  the  town,  where  but  for  him  they  had  not  dined. 
They  were  now  a  little  more  than  a  mile  from  the  said  town  ; 
the  whole  of  the  way  was  taken  up  by  this  hill ;  and  the  road, 
very  different  from  the  smoothened  declivities  of  the  present 
day,  seemed  to  have  been  cut  down  the  very  steepest  part  of  its 
centre ;  loose  stones  and  deep  ruts  increased  the  difficulty  of 
the  descent,  and  it  was  with  a  slow  pace  and  a  guarded  rein 
that  both  our  travellers  now  continued  their  journey.  On  the 
left  side  of  the  road  was  a  thick  and  lofty  hedge  ;  to  the  right, 
a  wild,  bare,  savage  heath  sloped  downward,  and  just  afforded 
a  glimpse  of  the  spires  and  chimneys  of  the  town,  at  which  the 
corporal  was  already  supping  in  idea  !  That  incomparable 
personage  was,  however,  abruptly  recalled  to  the  present  in- 
stant, by  a  most  violent  stumble  on  the  part  of  his  hard-mouthed, 
Roman-nosed  horse.  The  horse  was  all  but  down,  and  the  cor- 
poral all  but  over. 

"  D — n  it,"  said  the  corporal,  slowly  recovering  his  per- 
pendicularity, "  and  the  way  to  Lunnun  was  as  smooth  as  a 
bowling-green  !  " 

Ere  this  rueful  exclamation  was  well  out  of  the  corporal's 
mouth,  a  bullet  whizzed  past  him  from  the  hedge  ;  it  went  so 
close  to  his  ear,  that  but  for  that  lucky  stumble,  Jacob  Bunting 
had  been  as  the  grass  of  the  field,  which  flourisheth  one  moment 
and  is  cut  down  the  next  ! 

Startled  by  the  sound,  the  corporal's  horse  made  off  full  tear 
down  the  hill,  and  carried  him  several  paces  beyond  his  master 
ere  he  had  power  to  stop  its  career.  But  Walter,  reining  up 
his  better-managed  steed,  looked  round  for  the  enemy,  nor 
looked  in  vain. 

Three  men  started  from  the  hedge  with  a  simultaneous  shout. 
Walter  fired,  but  without  effect ;  ere  he  could  lay  hand  on  the 
second  pistol  his  bridle  was  seized,  and  a  violent  blow  from  a 
long  double-handed  bludgeon  brought  him  to  the  ground. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  163 

BOOK  III. 


0.  Afarq  pakia-a.  •/  1}  6ia<j>6£ipovod  (it. 
M .  &uvi)  yap  y  deof  a/JC  wwf  taaifiof. 
0.  Maviai  re — 

*  *  *  * 

M.  QavraapaTuv  6e  rade  vooelf  noluv  mo  ; 

— ORESTES,  398-407. 

O.    Mightiest  indeed  is  the  grief  consuming  me- 
M.   Dreadful  is  the  Divinity,  but  still  placable, 

O.    The  Furies  also 

******** 
M.  Urged  by  what  apparitions  do  you  rave  thus  ? 


CHAPTER  I. 

FRAUD     AND     VIOLENCE    ENTER      EVEN     GRASSDALE. — PETER'S 
NEWS. — THE    LOVERS'     WALK. — THE    REAPPEARANCE. 

"  Auf.  Whence  comest  thou  ! — What  wouldest  thou  ?" — Coriolanus. 

ONE  evening  Aram  and  Madeline  were  passing  through  the 
village  in  their  accustomed  walk,  when  Peter  Dealtry  sallied 
forth  from  the  Spotted  Dog,  and  hurried  up  to  the  lovers  with 
a  countenance  full  of  importance,  and  a  little  ruffled  by  fear. 

"Oh,  sir,  sir  (miss,  your  servant  !), — have  you  heard  the 
news!  Two  houses  at  Checkington  (a  small  town,  some  miles 
distant  from  Grassdale)  were  forcibly  entered  last  night — 
robbed,  your  honor,  robbed.  Squire  Tibson  was  tied  to  his 
bed,  his  bureau  rifled,  himself  shockingly  confused  on  the  head; 
and  the  maidservant,  Sally — her  sister  lived  with  me,  a  very 
good  girl — was  locked  up  in  the  cupboard.  As  to  the  other 
house,  they  carried  off  all  the  plate.  There  were  no  less  than 
four  men  all  masked,  your  honor,  and  armed  with  pistols. 
What  if  they  should  come  here  !  such  a  thing  was  never  heard 
of  before  in  these  parts.  But,  sir — but,  miss — do  not  be  afraid; 
do  not  ye,  now,  for  I  may  say  with  the  Psalmist : 

'  But  wicked  men  shall  drink  the  dregs 

Which  they  in  wrath  shall  wring  ; 
For  /will  lift  my  voice,  and  make 

Them  flee  while  1  do  sing.'  " 

"  You  could  not  find  a  more  effectual  method  of  putting  them 
to  flight,  Peter,"  said  Madeline,  smiling  ;  "  but  go  and  talk  to 


164  EUGENE     ARAM. 

my  uncle.  I  know  we  have  a  whole  magazine  of  blunderbusses 
and  guns  at  home  ;  they  may  be  useful  now.  But  you  are 
well  provided  in  case  of  attack.  Have  you  not  the  corporal's 
famous  cat,  Jacobina  ? — surely  a  match  for  fifty  robbers  !  " 

"  Ay,  miss,  on  the  principle  set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief,  per- 
haps she  may  be  ;  but  really,  it  is  no  jesting  matter.  I  don't 
say  as  how  I  am  timbersome  ;  but,  tho'  flesh  is  grass, — I  does 
not  wish  to  be  cut  down  afore  my  time.  Ah,  Mr.  Aram — your 
house  is  very  lonesome  like  ;  it  is  out  of  reach  of  all  your 
neighbors.  Hadn't  you  better,  sir,  take  up  your  lodging  at  the 
squire's  for  the  present  ?" 

Madeline  pressed  Aram's  arm,  and  looked  up  fearfully  in 
his  face.  "  YVhy,  my  good  friend,"  said  he  to  Dealtry,  "  robbers 
will  have  little  to  gain  in  my  house,  unless  they  are  given  to 
learned  pursuits.  It  would  be  something  new,  Peter,  to  see  a 
gang  of  housebreakers  making  off  with  a  telescope,  or  a  pair  of 
globes,  or  a  great  folio,  covered  with  dust." 

"  Ay,  your  honor,  but  they  may  be  the  more  savage  for  being 
Disappointed." 

"  Well,  well,  Peter,  we  will  see,"  replied  Aram  impatiently ; 
"  meanwhile  we  will  meet  you  again  at  the  hall.  Good-evening 
for  the  present." 

"  Do,  dearest  Eugene — do,  for  Heaven's  sake,"  said  Made- 
line, with  tears  in  her  eyes,  as,  turning  from  Dealtry,  they  di- 
rected their  steps  towards  the  quiet  valley,  at  the  end  of  which 
the  student's  house  was  situated,  and  which  was  now  more 
than  ever  Madeline's  favorite  walk, — "  do,  dearest  Eugene, 
come  up  to  the  manor-house  till  these  wretches  are  apprehended. 
Consider  how  openyvur  house  is  to  attack  ;  and  surely  there 
can  be  no  necessity  to  remain  in  it  now." 

Aram's  calm  brow  darkened  for  a  moment.  "What  !  dear- 
est," said  he  ;  "  can  you  be  affected  by  the  foolish  fears  of 
yon  dotard  ?  How  do  we  know  as  yet,  whether  this  improb- 
able story  have  any  foundation  in  truth  ?  At  all  events,  it  is 
evidently  exaggerated.  Perhaps  an  invasion  of  the  poultry- 
yard,  in  which  some  hungry  fox  was  the  real  offender,  may  be 
the  true  origin  of  this  terrible  tale.  Nay,  love — nay,  do  not 
look  thus  reproachfully  ;  it  will  be  time  enough  for  us  when 
we  have  sifted  the  grounds  of  alarm,  to  take  our  precautions  ; 
meanwhile  do  not  blame  me  if  in  your  presence  I  cannot  admit 
fear.  Oh,  Madeline — dear,  dear  Madeline,  could  you  guess, 
could  you  dream,  how  different  life  has  become  to  me  since  I 
knew  you  !  Formerly,  I  will  frankly  own  to  you,  that  dark 
and  boding  apprehensions  were  wont  to  lie  heavy  at  my  heart ; 


EUGENE     ARAM.  165 

the  cloud  was  more  familiar  tome  than  the  sunshine.  But  now 
I  have  grown  a  child,  and  can  see  around  me  nothing  but  hope,; 
my  life  was  winter  ;  your  love  has  breathed  it  into  spring." 

"  And  yet,  Eugene — yet — " 

"  Yet  what,  my  Madeline  ?  " 

"  There  are  still  moments  when  I  have  no  power  over  your 
thoughts  ;  moments  when  you  break  away  from  me  ;  when  you 
mutter  to  yourself  feelings  in  which  I  have  no  share,  and  which 
seem  to  steal  the  consciousness  from  your  eye  and  the  color 
from  your  lip." 

"  Ah,  indeed  !  "  said  Aram  quickly  :  "  what !  you  watch  me 
so  closely  ?  " 

"  Can  you  wonder  that  I  do  ?  "  said  Madeline,  with  an  earn- 
est tenderness  in  her  voice. 

"  You  must  not,  then, — you  must  not,"  returned  her  lover 
almost  fiercely.  "  I  cannot  bear  too  nice  and  sudden  a  scrutiny  ; 
consider  how  long  I  have  clung  to  a  stern  and  solitary  inde- 
pendence of  thought,  which  allows  no  watch,  and  forbids  ac- 
count of  itself  to  any  one.  Leave  it  to  time  and  your  love  to 
win  their  inevitable  way.  Ask  not  too  much  from  me  now. 
And  mark — mark,  I  pray  you,  whenever,  in  spite  of  myself, 
these  moods  you  refer  to  darken  over  me,  heed  not — listen  not. 
Leave  me! — solitude  is  their  only  cure  !  Promise  me  this, 
love — promise." 

"  It  is  a  harsh  request,  Eugene  ;  and  I  do  not  think  I  will 
grant  you  so  complete  a  monopoly  of  thought,"  answered  Mad- 
eline, playfully,  yet  half  in  earnest. 

"  Madeline,"  said  Aram,  with  a  deep  solemnity  of  manner, 
"I  ask  a  request  on  which  my  very  love  for  you  depends. 
From  the  depths  of  my  soul,  I  implore  you  to  grant  it ;  yea,  to 
the  very  letter." 

"Why,  why,  this  is — "  began  Madeline,  when,  encounter- 
ing the  full,  the  dark,  the  inscrutable  gaze  of  her  strange  lover, 
she  broke  off  in  a  sudden  fear,  which  she  could  not  analyze ; 
and  only  added,  in  a  low  and  subdued  voice, — "  I  promise  to 
obey  you." 

As  if  a  weight  were  lifted  from  his  heart,  Aram  now  bright- 
ened at  once  into  himself  in  his  happiest  mood.  He  poured 
forth  a  torrent  of  grateful  confidence,  of  buoyant  love,  that  soon 
swept  from  the  remembrance  of  the  blushing  and  enchanted 
Madeline  the  momentary  fear,  the  sudden  chillness,  which  his 
look  had  involuntarily  stricken  into  her  mind.  And  as  they 
now  wound  along  the  most  lonely  part  of  that  wild  valley,  his 
arm  twined  round  her  waist,  and  his  low  but  silver  voice  giving 


l66  EUGENE     ARAM. 

magic  to  the  very  air  she  breathed — she  felt,  perhaps,  a  more 
entire  and  unruffled  sentiment  of  present,  and  a  more  credu- 
lous persuasion  of  future,  happiness,  than  she  had  ever  experi- 
enced before.  And  Aram  himself  dwelt  with  a  more  lively 
and  detailed  fulness  than  he  was  wont,  on  the  prospects  they 
were  to  share,  and  the  security  and  peace  which  retirement 
would  bestow  upon  their  life. 

"  Shall  it  not,"  he  said,  "  shall  it  not  be,  that  we  shall  look 
from  our  retreat  upon  the  shifting  passions  and  the  hollow 
loves  of  the  distant  world  ?  We  can  have  no  petty  object,  no 
vain  allurement,  to  distract  the  unity  of  our  affection  ;  we  must 
be  all  in  all  to  each  other  :  for  what  else  can  there  be  to  en- 
gross our  thoughts  and  occupy  our  feelings  here  ? 

"If,  my  beautiful  love,  you  have  selected  one  whom  the 
world  might  deem  a  strange  choice  for  youth  and  loveliness 
like  yours ;  you  have,  at  least,  selected  one  who  can  have 
no  idol  but  yourself.  The  poets  tell  you,  and  rightly,  that  soli- 
tude is  the  fit  sphere  for  love ;  but  how  few  are  the  lovers 
whom  solitude  does  not  fatigue  !  They  rush  into  retirement, 
with  souls  unprepared  for  its  stern  joys  and  its  unvarying  tran- 
quillity :  they  weary  of  each  other,  because  the  solitude  itself 
to  which  they  fled  palls  upon  and  oppresses  them.  But  to  me, 
the  freedom  which  low  minds  call  obscurity  is  the  aliment  of 
life :  I  do  not  enter  the  temples  of  Nature  as  a  stranger,  but 
the  priest :  nothing  can  ever  tire  me  of  the  lone  and  august 
altars  on  which  I  sacrificed  my  youth  :  and  now,  what  Nature, 
what  Wisdom  once  were  to  me — no,  no,  more,  immeasurably 
more  than  these — you  are  !  Oh,  Madeline  !  methinks  there  is 
nothing  under  heaven  like  the  feeling  which  puts  us  apart  from 
all  that  agitates,  and  fevers,  and  degrades  the  herd  of  men  ; 
which  grants  us  to  control  the  tenor  of  our  future  life,  because 
it  annihilates  our  dependence  upon  others  ;  and  while  the  rest  of 
earth  are  hurried  on,  blind  and  unconscious,  by  the  hand  of  Fate, 
leaves  us  the  sole  lords  of  our  destiny;  and  able,  from  the  Past, 
which  we  have  governed,  to  become  the  Prophets  of  our  Future!" 

At  ihis  moment  Madeline  uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and  clung 
trembling  to  Aram's  arm.  Amazed,  and  aroused  from  his  en- 
thusiasm, he  looked  up,  and,  on  seeing  the  cause  of  her  alarm, 
seemed  himself  transfixed,  as  by  a  sudden  terror,  to  the  earth. 

But  a  few  paces  distant,  standing  amidst  the  long  and  rank 
fern  that  grew  on  either  side  of  their  path,  quite  motionless, 
and  looking  on  the  pair  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  stood  the  omi- 
nous stranger,  whom  the  second  chapter  of  our  first  BOOK  intro- 
duced to  the  reader. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  167 

For  one  instant  Aram  seemed  utterly  appalled  and  over- 
come ;  his  cheek  grew  the  color  of  death ;  and  Madeline  felt 
his  heart  beat  with  a  loud,  a  fearful  force  beneath  the  breast 
to  which  she  clung.  But  his  was  not  the  nature  any  earthly 
dread  could  long  daunt.  He  whispered  to  Madeline  to  come 
on  :  and  slowly,  and  with  his  usual  firm  but  gliding  step,  con- 
tinued his  way. 

"  Good  evening,  Eugene  Aram,"  said  the  stranger  ;  and  as 
he  spoke,  he  touched  his  hat  slightly  to  Madeline. 

"  i  thank  you,"  replied  the  student,  in  a  calm  voice  ;  "  do 
you  want  aught  with  me  ?  " 

"  Humph  ! — yes,  if  it  so  please  you." 

"  Pardon  me,  dear  Madeline,"said  Aram  softly,  and  disengag- 
ing himself  from  her,  "but  for  one  moment." 

He  advanced  to  the  stranger,  and  Madeline  could  not  but 
note  that,  as  Aram  accosted  him,  his  brow  fell,  and  his  manner 
seemed  violent  and  agitated  :  but  she  could  not  hear  the  words 
of  either,  nor  did  the  conference  last  above  a  minute.  The 
stranger  bowed,  and  turning  away,  soon  vanished  among  the 
shrubs.  Aram  regained  the  side  of  his  mistress. 

"  Who,"  cried  she  eagerly,  "is  that  fearful  man?  What  is 
his  business  ?  What  his  name?" 

"  He  is  a  man  whom  I  knew  well  some  fourteen  years  ago," 
replied  Aram  coldly,  and  with  ease  ;  "I  then  did  not  lead  quite 
so  lonely  a  life,  and  we  were  thrown  much  together.  Since 
that  time,  he  has  been  in  unfortunate  circumstances — rejoined 
the  army — he  was  in  early  life  a  soldier,  and  has  been  disbanded — 
entered  into  business,  and  failed ;  in  short,  he  has  partaken 
of  those  vicissitudes  inseparable  from  the  life  of  one  driven  to 
seek  the  world.  When  he  travelled  this  road  some  months 
ago,  he  accidentally  heard  of  my  residence  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  naturally  sought  me.  Poor  as  I  am,  I  was  of  some 
assistance  to  him.  His  route  brings  him  hither  again, 
and  he  again  seeks  me ;  I  suppose,  too,  that  I  must  again 
aid  him." 

"And  is  that,  indeed,  all?"  said  Madeline,  breathing  more 
freely.  "  Well,  poor  man,  if  he  be  your  friend,  he  must  be  in- 
offensive ;  I  have  done  him  wrong.  And  does  he  want  money? 
I  have  some  to  give  him — here,  Eugene  !  "  And  the  simple- 
hearted  girl  put  her  purse  into  Aram's  hand. 

"  No,  dearest,"  said  he,  shrinking  back  ;  "  no,  we  shall  not 
require  your  contribution  ;  I  can  easily  spare  him  enough  for 
the  present.  But  let  us  turn  back,  it  grows  chill." 

"And  why  did  he  leave  us,  Eugene?" 


l68  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"  Because  I  desired  him  to  visit  me  at  home  an  hour  hence." 

"  An  hour  !  then  you  will  not  sup  with  us  to-night  ?" 

"  No,  not  this  night,  dearest." 

The  conversation  now  ceased  ;  Madeline  in  vain  endeavored 
to  renew  it.  Aram,  though  without  relapsing  into  one  of  his 
frequent  reveries,  answered  her  only  in  monosyllables.  They 
arrived  at  the  manor-house,  and  Aram  at  the  garden-gate  took 
leave  of  her  for  the  night,  and  hastened  backward  towards  his 
home.  Madeline,  after  watching  his  form  through  the  deep- 
ening shadows  until  it  disappeared,  entered  the  house  with  a 
listless  step;  a  nameless  and  thrilling  presentiment  crept  to 
her  heart ;  and  she  could  have  sat  down  and  wept,  though  with- 
out a  cause. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   INTERVIEW    BETWEEN    ARAM    AND    THE   STRANGER. 

' '  The  spirits  I  have  raised  abandon  me  ; 

The  spells  which  I  have  studied  baffle  me." — Manfred. 

MEANWHILE  Aram  strode  rapidly  through  the  village,  and 
not  till  he  had  regained  the  solitary  valley  did  he  relax  his  step. 

The  evening  had  already  deepened  into  night.  Along  the 
sere  and  melancholy  woods  the  autumnal  winds  crept  with  a 
lowly  but  gathering  moan.  Where  the  water  held  its  course,  a 
damp  and  ghostly  mist  clogged  the  air  ;  but  the  skies  were 
calm,  and  chequered  only  by  a  few  clouds,  that  swept  in  long, 
white,  spectral  streaks,  over  the  solemn  stars.  Now  and  then 
the  bat  wheeled  swiftly  round,  almost  touching  the  figure  of  the 
student,  as  he  walked  musingly  onward.  And  the  owl,*  that 
before  the  month  waned  many  days  would  be  seen  no  more  in 
that  region,  came  heavily  from  the  trees  like  a  guilty  thought 
that  deserts  its  shade.  It  was  one  of  those  nights  half  dim, 
half  glorious,  which  mark  the  early  decline  of  the  year.  Nature 
seemed  restless  and  instinct  with  change  ;  there  were  those 
signs  in  the  atmosphere  which  leave  the  most  experienced  in 
doubt  whether  the  morning  may  rise  in  storm  or  sunshine. 
And  in  this  particular  period,  the  skyey  influences  seem  to 
tincture  the  animal  life  with  their  own  mysterious  and  wayward 
spirit  of  change.  The  birds  desert  their  summer  haunts  ;  an 
unaccountable  disquietude  pervades  the  brute  creation  ;  even 

*  That  species  called  the  short-eared  owl. 


EUGENE     AfcAM.  169 

in  this  unsettled  season  have  considered  themselves,  more 
than  at  others,  stirred  by  the  motion  and  whisperings  of  their 
genius.  And  every  creature  that  flows  upon  the  tide  of  the 
Universal  Life  of  Things  feels  upor  *he  ruffled  surface  the 
mighty  and  solemn  change  which  is  at  work  within  its  depths. 

And  now  Aram  had  nearly  threaded  the  valley,  and  his  own 
abode  became  visible  on  the  opening  plain,  when  the  stranger 
emerged  from  the  trees  to  the  right,  and  suddenly  stood  before 
the  student.  "  I  tarried  for  you  here,  Aram,"  said  he,  "instead 
of  seeking  you  at  home,  at  the  time  you  fixed  :  for  there  are 
certain  private  reasons  which  make  it  prudent  I  should  keep  as 
much  as  possible  among  the  owls,  and  it  was  therefore  safer,  if 
not  more  pleasant,  to  lie  here  amidst  the  fern,  than  to  make 
myself  merry  in  the  village  yonder." 

"  And  what,"  said  Aram,  "  again  brings  you  hither  ?  Did 
you  not  say,  when  you  visited  me  some  months  since,  that  you 
were  about  to  settle  in  a  different  part  of  the  country,  with  a 
relation  ?  " 

"  And  so  I  intended  ;  but  Fate,  as  you  would  say,  or  the 
Devil,  as  I  should,  ordered  it  otherwise.  I  had  not  long  left 
you,  when  I  fell  in  with  some  old  friends,  bold  spirits  and  true; 
the  brave  outlaws  of  the  road  and  the  field.  Shall  I  have  any 
shame  in  confessing  that  I  preferred  their  society,  a  society  not 
unfamiliar  to  me,  to  the  dull  and  solitary  life  that  I  might  have 
led  in  tending  my  old  bedridden  relation  in  Wales,  who,  after 
all,  may  live  these  twenty  years,  and  at  the  end  can  scarcely 
leave  me  enough  for  a  week's  ill-luck  at  the  hazard-table  ?  In 
a  word,  I  joined  my  gallant  friends  and  entrusted  myself  to 
their  guidance.  Since  then,  we  have  cruised  around  the 
country,  regaled  ourselves  cheerily,  frightened  the  timid, 
silenced  the  fractious,  and  by  the  help  of  your  fate  or  my 
devil,  have  found  ourselves,  by  accident,  brought  to  exhibit  our 
valor  in  this  very  district,  honored  by  the  dwelling-place  of  my 
learned  friend  Eugene  Aram." 

"Trifle  not  with  me,"  said  Aram  sternly;  "I  scarcely  yet 
understand  you.  Do  you  mean  to  imply  that  yourself,  and  the 
lawless  associates  you  say  you  have  joined,  are  lying  out  now 
for  plunder  in  these  parts?" 

"  You  say  it :  perhaps  you  heard  of  our  exploits  last  night, 
some  four  miles  hence  ?  " 

"  Ha  !  was  that  villany  yours  ?" 

"Villany  !  "  repeated  Houseman,  in  a  tone  of  sullen  offence. 
"  Come,  Master  Aram,  these  words  must  not  pass  between  you 
and  me,  friends  of  such  date,  and  on  such  a  footing." 


176  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"Talk  not  of  the  past,"  replied  Aram  with  a  livid  lip,  "and 
call  not  those  whom  Destiny  once,  in  despite  of  Nature,  drove 
down  her  dark  tide  in  a  momentary  companionship,  by  the 
name  of  friends.  Friends  we  are  not ;  but  while  we  live  there 
is  a  tie  between  us  stronger  than  that  of  friendship." 

"  You  speak  truth  and  wisdom,"  said  Houseman  sneeringly  ; 
"  for  my  part,  I  care  not  what  you  call  us,  friends  or  foes." 

"  Foes,  foes  !  "  exclaimed  Aram  abruptly  ;  "not  that.  Has 
fife  no  medium  in  its  ties  ?  Pooh — pooh  !  not  foes  ;  we  may 
not  be  foes  to  each  other." 

"  It  were  foolish,  at  least  at  present,"  said  Houseman  care- 
lessly. 

"  Look  you,  Houseman,"  continued  Aram,  drawing  his  com- 
rade from  the  path  into  a  wilder  part  of  the  scene,  and,  as  he 
spoke,  his  words  were  couched  in  a  more  low  and  inward  voice 
than  heretofore.  "  Look  you,  I  cannot  live  and  have  my  life 
darkened  thus  by  your  presence.  Is  not  the  world  wide  enough 
for  us  both  ?  Why  haunt  each  other  ?  what  have  you  to  gain 
from  me  ?  Can  the  thoughts  that  my  sight  recalls  to  you  be 
brighter,  or  more  peaceful,  than  those  which  start  upon  me 
when  I  gaze  on  you  ?  Does  not  a  ghastly  air,  a  charnel  breath 
hover  about  us  both  ?  Why  perversely  incur  a  torture  it  is  so 
easy  to  avoid  ?  Leave  me — leave  these  scenes.  All  earth 
spreads  before  you ;  choose  your  pursuits,  and  your  resting- 
place  elsewhere,  but  grudge  me  not  this  little  spot." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  disturb  you,  Eugene  Aram,  but  I  must 
live  ;  and  in  order  to  live  I  must  obey  my  companions  :  if  I 
deserted  them,  it  would  be  to  starve.  They  will  not  linger 
long  in  this  district  ;  a  week,  it  may  be  ;  a  fortnight,  at  most  : 
then,  like  the  Indian  animal,  they  will  strip  the  leaves,  and  de- 
sert the  tree.  In  a  word,  after  we  have  swept  the  country,  we 
are  gone." 

"  Houseman,  Houseman ! "  said  Aram  passionately,  and 
frowning  till  his  brows  almost  hid  his  eyes  ;  but  that  part  of 
the  orb  which  they  did  not  hide  seemed  as  living  fire  ;  "  I 
now  implore,  but  I  can  threaten — beware !  silence,  I  say  " 
(and  he  stamped  his  foot  violently  on  the  ground,  as  he  saw 
Houseman  about  to  interrupt  him)  ;  "listen  to  me  through- 
out. Speak  not  to  me  of  tarrying  here — speak  not  of  days,  of 
weeks — every  hour  of  which  would  sound  upon  my  ear  like  a 
death-knell.  Dream  not  of  a  sojourn  in  these  tranquil  shades, 
upon  an  errand  of  dread  and  violence — the  minions  of  the  law 
aroused  against  you,  girt  with  the  chances  of  apprehension  and 
a  shameful  death — " 


EUGENE     ARAM.  Ifl 

"And  a  full  confession  of  my  past  sins,"  interrupted 
Houseman,  laughing  wildly. 

"Fiend!  devil !"  cried  Aram,  grasping  his  companion  by 
the  throat,  and  shaking  him  with  a  vehemence  that  Houseman, 
though  a  man  of  great  strength  and  sinew,  impotently  attempted 
to  resist.  "  Breathe  but  another  word  of  such  import ;  dare  to 
menace  me  with  the  vengeance  of  such  a  thing  as  thou,  and, 
by  the  Heaven  above  us,  I  will  lay  thee  dead  at  my  feet !  " 

"  Release  my  throat,  or  you  will  commit  murder,"  gasped 
Houseman,  with  difficulty,  and  growing  already  black  in  the  face. 

Aram  suddenly  relinquished  his  gripe,  and  walked  away 
with  a  hurried  step,  muttering  to  himself.  He  then  returned  to 
the  side  of  Houseman,  whose  flesh  still  quivered  either  with 
rage  or  fear,  and,  his  own  self-possession  completely  re- 
stored, stood  gazing  upon  him  with  folded  arms,  and  his  usual 
deep  and  passionless  composure  of  countenance  ;  and  House- 
man, if  he  could  not  boldly  confront,  did  not  altogether  shrink 
from,  his  eye.  So  there  and  thus  they  stood,  at  a  little  distance 
from  each  other,  both  silent,  and  yet  with  something  unutter- 
ably fearful  in  their  silence. 

"  Houseman,"  said  Aram  at  length  in  a  calm,  yet  a  hollow 
voice,  "  it  may  be  that  I  was  wrong  ;  but  there  lives  no  man  on 
earth,  save  you,  who  could  thus  stir  my  blood, — nor  you  with 
ease.  And  know,  when  you  menace  me,  that  it  is  not  your 
menace  that  subdues  or  shakes  my  spirit ;  but  that  which  robs  my 
veins  of  their  even  tenor  is,  that  you  should  deem  your  menace 
could  have  such  power,  or  that  you — that  any  man — should  ar- 
rogate to  himself  the  thought  that  he  could,  by  the  prospect  of 
whatsoever  danger,  humble  the  soul  and  curb  the  will  of  Eugene 
Aram.  And  now  I  am  calm  ;  say  what  you  will,  I  cannot  be 
vexed  again." 

''I  have  done,"  replied  Houseman  coldly.  I  have  nothing 
to  say  ;  farewell !  "  and  he  moved  away  among  the  trees. 

"  Stay,"  cried  Aram,  in  some  agitation  ;  "  stay  ;  we  must  not 
part  thus.  Look  you,  Houseman,  you  say  you  would  starve 
should  you  leave  your  present  associates.  That  may  not  be  ; 
quit  them  this  night, — this  moment  :  leave  the  neighborhood, 
and  the  little  in  my  power  is  at  your  will." 

"  As  to  that,"  said  Houseman  dryly,  "  what  is  in  your  power 
is,  I  fear  me,  so  little  as  not  to  counterbalance  the  advantages 
I  should  lose  in  quitting  my  companions.  I  expect  to  net  some 
three  hundreds  before  I  leave  these  parts." 

"Some  three  hundreds  !"  repeated  Aram,  recoiling  :  "that 
were  indeed  beyond  me.  I  told  you  when  we  last  met  that  it  is 


172  EUGENE     ARAM. 

only  from  an  annual  payment  I  draw  the  means  of  subsist- 
ence." 

"  I  remember  it.  I  do  not  ask  you  for  money,  Eugene 
Aram  ;  these  hands  can  maintain  me,"  replied  Houseman, 
smiling  grimly.  "  I  told  you  at  once  the  sum  I  expected  to  re- 
ceive somewhere,  in  order  to  prove  that  you  need  not  vex  your 
benevolent  heart  to  afford  me  relief.  I  knew  well  the  sum  I 
named  was  out  of  your  power,  unless  indeed  it  be  part  of  the 
marriage  portion  you  are  about  to  receive  with  your  bride. 
Fie,  Aram  !  what,  secrets  from  your  old  friend  !  You  see  I 
pick  up  the  news  of  the  place  without  your  confidence." 

Again  Aram's  face  worked,  and  his  lip  quivered  ;  but  h» 
conquered  his  passion  with  a  surprising  self-command,  and 
answered  mildly  : 

"  I  do  not  know,  Houseman,  whether  I  shall  receive  any 
marriage  portion  whatsoever ;  if  I  do,  I  am  willing  to  make 
some  arrangement  by  which  I  could  engage  you  to  molest  me 
no  more.  But  it  yet  wants  several  days  to  my  marriage  ;  quit 
the  neighborhood  now,  and  a  month  hence  let  us  meet  again. 
Whatever  at  that  time  may  be  my  resources,  you  shall  frankly 
know  them." 

"  It  cannot  be,"  said  Houseman.  "  I  quit  not  these  districts 
without  a  certain  sum,  not  in  hope,  but  possession.  But  why 
interfere  with  me  ?  I  seek  not  my  hoards  in  your  coffer.  Why 
so  anxious  that  I  should  not  breathe  the  same  air  as  yourself  ? 

"It  matters  not,"  replied  Aram,  with  a  deep  and  ghastly 
voice  ;  "  but  when  you  are  near  me,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  with  the 
dead  ;  it  is  a  spectre  that  I  would  exorcise  in  ridding  me  of 
your  presence.  Yet  this  is  not  what  I  now  speak  of.  You  are 
engaged,  according  to  your  own  lips,  in  lawless  and  midnight 
schemes,  in  which  you  may  (and  the  tide  of  chances  runs  to- 
wards that  bourne)  be  seized  by  the  hand  of  Justice." 

"  Ho  ! "  said  Houseman  sullenly  ;  "and  was  it  not  for  saying 
that  you  feared  this,  and  its  probable  consequences,  that  you 
well-nigh  stifled  me,  but  now  ?  So  truth  may  be  said  one 
moment  with  impunity,  and  the  next  at  peril  of  life  !  These 
are  the  subtleties  of  you  wise  schoolmen,  I  suppose  Your 
Aristotles  and  your  Zenos,  your  Platos  and  your  Epicuruses, 
teach  you  notable  distinctions,  truly  !  " 

"  Peace  !  "  said  Aram  ;  "  are  we  at  all  times  ourselves  ?  Are 
the  passions  never  our  masters?  You  maddened  me  into 
anger  ;  behold  I  am  now  calm  :  the  subjects  discussed  between 
myself  and  you  are  of  life  and  death  ;  let  us  approach  them 
with  our  senses  collected  and  prepared.  What,  Houseman,  are 


fcUGENE     ARAM.  I?3 

you  bent  upon  your  own  destruction,  as  well  as  mine,  that  you 
persevere  in  courses  which  must  end  in  a  death  of  shame  ?  " 

"  What  else  can  I  do  ?  "  I  will  not  work,  and  I  cannot  live 
like  you  in  a  lone  wilderness  on  a  crust  of  bread.  Nor  is  my 
name,  like  yours,  mouthed  by  the  praise  of  honest  men  :  my 
character  is  marked  ;  those  who  once  welcomed  me  shun  now. 
I  have  no  resource  for  society  (for  /cannot face  myself  alone), 
but  in  the  fellowship  of  men  like  myself,  whom  the  world  has 
thrust  from  its  pale.  I  have  no  resource  for  bread,  save  in  the 
pursuits  that  are  branded  by  justice,  and  accompanied  with 
snares  and  danger.  What  would  you  have  me  do?" 

"Is  it  not  better,"  said  Aram,  "to  enjoy  peace  and  safety 
upon  a  small  but  certain  pittance,  than  to  live  thus  from  hand 
to  mouth  ?  vibrating  from  wealth  to  famine,  and  the  rope 
around  your  neck,  sleeping  and  awake  ?  Seek  your  relation  ; 
in  that  quarter  you  yourself  said  your  character  was  not 
branded  :  live  with  him,  and  know  the  quiet  of  easy  days, 
and  I  promise  you,  that  if  aught  be  in  my  power  to  make  your 
lot  more  suitable  to  your  wants,  so  long  as  you  lead  the  life  of 
honest  men,  it  shall  be  freely  yours.  Is  not  this  better,  House- 
man, than  a  short  and  sleepless  career  of  dread  ? " 

"  Aram,"  answered  Houseman,  "  are  you,  in  truth,  calm 
enough  to  hear  me  speak  ?  I  warn  you,  that  if  again  you  for- 
get yourself,  and  lay  hands  on  me — " 

"  Threaten  not,  threaten  not,"  interrupted  Aram,  "but  pro- 
ceed ;  all  within  me  is  now  still  and  cold  as  ice.  Proceed  with- 
out fear  or  scruple." 

"  Be  it  so  ;  we  do  not  love  one  another  :  you  have  affected 
contempt  for  me — and  I — I — no  matter — I  am  not  a  stone  or 
a  stick,  that  I  should  not  feel.  You  have  scorned  me — you 
have  outraged  me — you  have  not  assumed  towards  me  even  the 
decent  hypocrisies  of  prudence  ;  yet  now  you  would  ask  of  me 
the  conduct,  the  sympathy,  the  forbearance,  the  concession  of 
friendship.  You  wish  that  I  should  quit  these  scenes,  where,  to 
my  judgment,  a  certain  advantage  awaits  me,  solely  that  I  may 
lighten  your  breast  of  its  selfish  fears.  You  dread  the  dangers 
that  await  me  on  your  own  account.  And  in  my  apprehension 
you  forbode  your  own  doom.  You  ask  me,  nay  not  ask,  you 
would  command,  you  would  awe  me  to  sacrifice  my  will  and 
wishes,  in  order  to  soothe  your  anxieties  and  strengthen  your 
own  safety.  Mark  me  !  Eugene  Aram,  I  have  been  treated  as 
a  tool,  and  I  will  not  be  governed  as  a  friend.  I  will  not  stir 
from  the  vicinity  of  your  home  till  my  designs  be  fulfilled, — I 
enjoy,  I  hug  myself  in  your  torments.  I  exult  in  the  terror 


174  EUGENE     ARAM. 

with  which  you  will  hear  of  each  new  enterprise,  each  new  dar- 
ing, each  new  triumph  of  myself  and  my  gallant  comrades. 
And  now  I  am  avenged  for  the  affront  you  put  upon  me." 

Though  Aram  trembled  with  suppressed  passion  from  limb 
to  limb,  his  voice  was  still  calm,  and  his  lip  even  wore  a  smile 
as  he  answered : 

"  I  was  prepared  for  this,  Houseman  ;  you  utter  nothing  that 
surprises  or  appals  me.  You  hate  me  ;  it  is  natural  :  men 
united  as  we  are  rarely  look  on  each  other  with  a  friendly  or  a 
pitying  eye.  But,  Houseman,  I  KNOW  YOU  ! — you  are  a  man  of 
vehement  passions,  but  interest  with  you  is  yet  stronger  than  pas- 
sion. If  not,  our  conference  is  over.  Go — and  do  your  worst." 

"  You  are  right,  most  learned  scholar  ;  I  can  fetter  the  tige* 
within,  in  his  deadliest  rage,  by  a  golden  chain." 

"  Well,  then,  Houseman,  it  is  not  your  interest  to  betray  me — 
my  destruction  is  your  own." 

"  I  grant  it ;  but  if  I  am  apprehended,  and  to  be  hung  for 
robbery  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  no  longer  an  object  to  you,  to  care  for  my  safety. 
Assuredly,  I  comprehend  this.  But  my  interest  induces  me 
to  wish  that  you  be  removed  from  the  peril  of  apprehension, 
and  your  interest  replies,  that  if  you  can  obtain  equal  advan- 
tages in  security,  you  would  forego  advantages  accompanied 
by  peril.  Say  what  we  will,  wander  as  we  will,  it  is  to  this 
point  that  we  must  return  at  last." 

"Nothing  can  be  clearer  ;  and  were  you  a  rich  man,  Eugene 
Aram,  or  could  you  obtain  your  bride's  dowry  (no  doubt  a  respec- 
table sum)  in  advance,  the  arrangement  might  at  once  be  settled." 

Aram  gasped  for  breath,  and,  as  usual  with  him  in  emotion, 
made  several  strides  muttering  rapidly  and  indistinctly  to  him- 
self, and  then  returned: 

"  Even  were  this  possible,  it  would  be  but  a  short  reprieve ; 
I  could  not  trust  you  ;  the  sum  would  be  spent,  and  I  again 
in  the  state  to  which  you  have  compelled  me  now,  but  without 
the  means  again  to  relieve  myself.  No,  no  !  if  the  blow  must 
fall,  be  it  so,  one  day  as  another." 

"As  you  will,"  said  Houseman  ;  "but — "  Just  at  that  mo- 
ment, a  long,  shrill  whistle  sounded  below,  as  from  the  water. 
Houseman  paused  abruptly — •  "  Thai  signal  is  from  my  com- 
rades ;  I  must  away.  Hark,  again  !  Farewell,  Aram." 

"Farewell,  if  it  must  be  so,"  said  Aram,  in  a  tone  of  dogged 
sullenness  ;  "  but  to-morrow,  should  you  know  of  any  means 
by  which  I  could  feel  secure  beyond  the  security  of  your  own 
"word,  from  your  future  molestation,  1  might — yet  how  ? " 


EUGENE     ARAM.  175 

"To-morrow,"  said  Houseman, "  I  cannot  answer  for  myself; 
/t  is  not  always  that  I  can  leave  my  comrades  :  a  natural  jeal- 
ousy makes  them  suspicious  of  the  absence  of  their  friends. 
Yet  hold  ;  the  night  after  to-morrow,  the  Sabbath  night,  most 
virtuous  Aram,  I  can  meet  you — but  not  here — some  miles 
hence.  You  know  the  foot  of  the  Devil's  Crag,  by  the  water- 
fall ;  it  is  a  spot  quiet  and  shaded  enough  in  all  conscience 
for  our  interview  ;  and  I  will  tell  you  a  secret  I  would  trust 
to  no  other  man  (hark,  again  !) — it  is  close  by  our  present  lurk- 
ing-place. Meet  me  there  ! — it  would,  indeed,  be  pleasanter  to 
hold  our  conference  under  shelter  ;  but  just  at  present,  I  would 
rather  not  trust  myself  under  any  honest  man's  roof  in  this  neigh- 
borhood. Adieu!  on  Sunday  night,  one  hour  before  midnight." 

The  robber,  for  such  then  he  was,  waved  his  hand,  and  hur- 
ried away  in  the  direction  from  which  the  signal  seemed  to  come. 

Aram  gazed  after  him,  but  with  vacant  eyes  ;  and  remained  for 
several  minutes  rooted  to  the  spot  as  if  the  very  life  had  left  him. 

"  The  Sabbath  night !  "  said  he,  at  length,  moving  slowly  on  ; 
"  and  I  must  spin  forth  my  existence  in  trouble  and  fear  till 
then — //'//  then  !  what  remedy  can  I  then  invent  ?  It  is  clear 
that  I  can  have  no  dependence  on  his  word,  if  won  ;  and  I 
have  not  even  aught  wherewith  to  buy  it.  But  courage,  cour- 
age, my  heart  ;  and  work  thou,  my  busy  brain  !  Ye  have  never 
failed  me  yet." 

CHAPTER  III. 

FRESH  ALARM  IN  THE  VILLAGE. — LESTER'S  VISIT  TO  ARAM. — A 
TKAIT  OF  DELICATE  KINDNESS  IN  THE  STUDENT. — MADE- 
LINE.—  HER  PRONENESS  TO  CONFIDE. THE  CONVERSATION 

BETWEEN    LESTER     AND    ARAM. — THE     PERSONS   BY    WHOM  IT 
IS   INTERRUPTED. 

"  Not  my  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 

Of  the  wide  word,  dreaming  on  things  to  come, 
Can  yet  the  lease  of  my  true  love  control." 

SHAKSPEARE'S  Sonnets. 

"  Commend  me  to  their  love,  and  I  am  proud,  say, 
That  my  occasions  have  found  time  to  use  them, 
Toward  a  supply  of  money  ;  let  the  request 
Be  fifty  talents." — Timon  of  Athens. 

THE  next  morning  the  whole  village  was  alive  and  bustling 
with  terror  and  consternation.  Another,  and  a  yet  more  dar- 
ing robbery,  had  been  committed  in  the  neighborhood,  and 


i?6  EUGENE     ARAM. 

the  police  of  the  county  town  had  been  summoned,  and  were 
now  busy  in  search  of  the  offenders.  Aram  had  been  early 
disturbed  by  the  officious  anxiety  of  some  of  his  neighbors  ; 
and  it  wanted  yet  some  hours  of  noon,  when  Lester  himself 
came  to  seek  and  consult  with  the  student. 

Aram  was  alone  in  his  large  and  gloomy  chamber,  sur- 
rounded, as  usual,  by  his  books,  but  not,  as  usual,  engaged  in 
their  contents.  With  his  face  leaning  on  his  hand,  and  his 
eyes  gazing  on  a  dull  fire,  that  crept  heavily  upward  through 
the  damp  fuel,  he  sat  by  his  hearth  listless,  but  wrapped  in 
thought. 

"  Well,  my  friend,"  said  Lester,  displacing  the  books  from 
one  of  the  chairs,  and  drawing  his  seat  near  the  student's — 
"  you  have  ere  this  heard  the  news ;  and,  indeed,  in  a  county 
so  quiet  as  ours,  these  outrages  appear  the  more  fearful  from 
their  being  so  unlocked  for.  We  must  set  a  guard  in  the  vil- 
lage, Aram,  and  you  must  leave  this  defenceless  hermitage  and 
come  down  to  us, — not  for  your  own  sake,  but  consider,  you 
will  be  an  additional  safeguard  to  Madeline.  You  will  lock  up 
the  house,  dismiss  your  poor  old  governant  to  her  friends 
in  the  village,  and  walk  back  with  me  at  once  to  the  hall." 

Aram  turned  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"  I  feel  your  kindness,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "  but  I  can- 
not accept  it, — Madeline — "  he  stopped  short  at  that  name,  and 
added,  in  an  altered  voice — "  no,  I  will  be  one  of  the  watch, 
Lester  ;  I  will  look  to  her — to  your — safety  ;  but  I  cannot  sleep 
under  another  roof.  I  am  superstitious,  Lester — .superstitious. 
I  have  made  a  vow,  a  foolish  one,  perhaps,  but  I  dare  not 
break  it.  And  my  vow  binds  me,  not  to  pass  a  night,  save  on 
indispensable  and  urgent  necessity,  anywhere  but  in  my  own 
home." 

"  But  there  is  necessity." 

"  My  conscience  says  not,"  said  Aram,  smiling.  "  Peace,  my 
good  friend,  we  cannot  conquer  men's  foibles,  or  wrestle  with 
men's  scruples." 

Lester  in  vain  attempted  to  shake  Aram's  resolution  on  this 
head ;  he  found  him  immovable,  and  gave  up  the  effort  in  despair 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "at  all  events  we  have  set  up  a  watch,  and 
can  spare  you  a  couple  of  defenders.  They  shall  reconnoitre 
in  the  neighborhood  of  your  house,  if  you  persevere  in  your  de- 
termination ;  and  this  will  serve,  in  some  slight  measure,  to 
satisfy  poor  Madeline." 

"  Be  it  so,"  replied  Aram  ;  "  and  dear  Madeline  herself,  is  she 
so  alarmed  ? " 


EUGENE     ARAM.  177 

And  now,  in  spite  of  all  the  more  wearing  and  haggard 
thoughts  that  preyed  upon  his  breast,  and  the  dangers  by 
which  he  conceived  himself  beset,  the  student's  face,  as  he 
listened  with  eager  attention  to  every  word  that  Lester  uttered 
concerning  his  daughter,  testified  how  alive  he  yet  was  to  the 
least  incident  that  related  to  Madeline,  and  how  easily  her  in- 
nocent and  peaceful  remembrance  could  allure  him  from 
himself. 

"  This  room,"  said  Lester,  looking  round,  "  will  be,  I  con 
elude,  after  Madeline's  own  heart  ;  but  will  you  always  suffer 
her  here  ?     Students  do  not  sometimes  like  even   the  gentlest 
interruption." 

"I  have  not  forgotten  that  Madeline's  comfort  requires  some 
more  cheerful  retreat  than  this,"  said  Aram,  with  a  melancholy 
expression  of  countenance.  '*  Follow  me,  Lester  ;  I  meant 
this  for  a  little  surprise  to  her.  But  Heaven  only  knows  if  I 
shall  ever  show  it  to  herself." 

"Why?  what  doubt  of  that  can  even  your  boding  temper 
indulge? " 

"  We  are  as  the  wanderers  in  the  desert,"  answered  Aram, 
"  who  are  taught  wisely  to  distrust  their  own  senses  :  that 
which  they  gaze  upon  as  the  waters  of  existence  is  often  but  a 
faithless  vapor  that  would  lure  them  to  destruction." 

In  thus  speaking  he  had  traversed  the  room,  and,  opening  a 
door,  showed  a  small  chamber  with  which  it  communicated, 
and  which  Aram  had  fitted  up  with  evident,  and  not  ungrace- 
ful care.  Every  article  of  furniture  that  Madeline  might  most 
fancy,  he  had  procured  from  the  neighboring  town.  And  some 
of  the  lighter  and  more  attractive  books  that  he  possessed  were 
ranged  around  on  shelves,  above  which  were  vases,  intended  for 
flowers  ;  the  window  opened  upon  a  little  plot  that  had  been 
lately  broken  up  into  a  small  garden,  and  was  already  inter- 
sected with  walks,  and  rich  with  shrubs. 

There  was  something  in  this  chamber  that  so  entirely  con- 
trasted the  one  it  adjoined,  something  so  light,  and  cheerful, 
and  even  gay  in  its  decoration  and  general  aspect,  that  Lester 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  delight  and  surprise.  And  indeed 
it  did  appear  to  him  touching,  that  this  austere  scholar,  so 
wrapped  in  thought,  and  so  inattentive  to  the  common  forms 
of  life,  should  have  manifested  so  much  of  tender  and  delicate 
consideration.  In  another  it  would  have  been  nothing,  but  in 
Aram  it  was  a  trait  that  brought  involuntary  tears  to  the  eyes 
of  the  good  Lester  ;  Aram  observed  them  ;  he  walked  hastily 
away  to  the  window,  and  sighed  heavily  ;  this  did  not  escape 


178  EUGENE     ARAM. 

his  friend's  notice,  and  after  commenting  on  the  attractions  ot 
the  little  room,  Lester  said  : 

"  You  seem  oppressed  in  spirits,  Eugene  :  can  anything  have 
chanced  to  disturb  you,  beyond,  at  least,  these  alarms,  which 
are  enough  to  agitate  the  nerves  of  the  hardiest  of  us  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Aram,  "  I  had  no  sleep  last  night,  and  my  health 
is  easily  affected,  and  with  my  health  my  mind.  But  let  us  go 
to  Madeline  ;  the  sight  of  her  will  revive  me." 

They  then  strolled  down  to  the  manor-house,  and  met  by 
the  way  a  band  of  the  younger  heroes  of  the  village,  who  had 
volunteered  to  act  as  a  patrol,  and  who  were  now  marshalled  by 
Peter  Dealtry,  in  a  fit  of  heroic  enthusiasm. 

Although  it  was  broad  daylight,  and  consequently  there  was 
little  cause  of  immediate  alarm,  the  worthy  publican  carried  on 
his  shoulder  a  musket  on  full  cock  ;  and  each  moment  he  kept 
peeping  about,  as  if  not  only  every  bush,  but  every  blade  of 
grass,  contained  an  ambuscade,  ready  to  spring  up  the  instant 
he  was  off  his  guard.  By  his  side  the  redoubted  Jacobina,  who 
had  transferred  to  her  new  master  the  attachment  she  had 
originally  possessed  for  the  corporal,  trotted  peeringly  along, 
her  tail  perpendicularly  cocked,  and  her  ears  moving  to  and 
fro  with  a  most  incomparable  air  of  vigilant  sagacity.  The 
cautious  Peter  every  now  and  then  checked  her  ardor,  as  she 
was  about  to  quicken  her  step,  and  enliven  the  march  by  gam- 
bols better  adapted  to  serener  times. 

"  Soho,  Jacobina,  soho  !  gently,  girl,  gently  ;  thou  little 
knowest  the  dangers  that  may  beset  thee.  Come  up,  my  good 
fellows,  come  to  The  Spotted  Dog  ;  I  will  tap  a  barrel  on  pur- 
pose for  you  ;  and  we  will  settle  the  plan  of  defence  for  the 
night.  Jacobina,  come  in,  I  say  ;  come  in, 

'  Lest,  like  a  lion,  they  thee  tear, 

And  rend  in  pieces  small : 
While  there  is  none  to  succor  thee, 
And  rid  thee  out  of  thrall.' 

What  ho,  there !  Oh  !  I  beg  your  honor's  pardon !  Your 
servant,  Mr.  Aram." 

"  What,  patrolling  already?"  said  the  squire;  "your  men 
will  be  tired  before  they  are  wanted  ;  reserve  their  ardor  for  the 
night." 

"  Oh,  your  honor,  I  have  only  been  beating  up  for  recruits  ; 
and  we  are  going  to  consult  a  .bit  at  home.  Ah  !  what  a  pity 
the  corporal  isn't  here  :  he  would  have  been  a  tower  of  strength 
unto  the  righteous.  But,  howsomever,  I  do  my  best  to  supply 
his  place — Jacobina,  child,  be  still :  I  can't  say  as  I  knows  the 


EUGENE     ARAM. 

musket-sarvice,  your  honor ;  but  I  fancy's  as  how  we  can  do  it 
extemporaneous  like  at  a  pinch." 

"A  bold  heart,  Peter,  is  the  best  preparation,"  said  the 
squire. 

"  And,"  quoth  Peter  quickly,  "  what  saith  the  worshipful 
Mister  Sternhold,  in  the  45th  Psalm,  5th  verse  ? — 

'  Go  forth  with  godly  speed,  in  meekness,  truth,  and  might, 
And  thy  right  hand  shall  thee  instruct  in  works  of  dreadful  might.' " 

Peter  quoted  these  verses,  especially  the  last,  with  a  trucu- 
lent frown,  and  a  brandishing  of  the  musket,  that  surprisingly 
encouraged  the  hearts  of  his  little  armament  ;  and  with  a  gen- 
eral murmur  of  enthusiasm,  the  warlike  band  marched  off  to 
The  Spotted  Dog. 

Lester  and  his  companion  found  Madeline  and  Ellinor 
standing  at  the  window  of  the  hall  ;  and  Madeline's  light  step 
was  the  first  that  sprang  forward  to  welcome  their  return  ;  even 
the  face  of  the  studenf  brightened,  when  he  saw  the  kindling 
eye,  the  parted  lip,  the  buoyant  form,  from  which  the  pure  and 
innocent  gladness  she  felt  on  seeing  him  broke  forth. 

There  was  a  remarkable  trustfulness  in  Madeline's  disposi- 
tion. Thoughtful  and  grave  as  she  was  by  nature,  she  was  yet 
ever  inclined  to  the  more  sanguine  colorings  of  life  ;  she  never 
turned  to  the  future  with  fear — a  placid  sentiment  of  hope 
slept  at  her  heart — she  was  one  who  surrendered  herself  with  a 
fond  and  implicit  faith  to  the  guidance  of  all  she  loved  ;  and 
to  the  chances  of  life.  It  was  a  sweet  indolence  of  the  mind, 
which  made  one  of  her  most  beautiful  traits  of  character  ; 
there  is  something  so  unselfish  in  tempers  reluctant  to  despond. 
You  see  that  such  persons  are  not  occupied  with  their  own  ex- 
istence ;  they  are  not  fretting  the  calm  of  the  present  life  with 
the  egotisms  of  care,  and  conjecture,  and  calculation  ;  if  they 
learn  anxiety,  it  is  for  another  :  but  in  the  heart  of  that  other, 
how  entire  is  their  trust ! 

It  was  this  disposition  in  Madeline  which  perpetually  charmed, 
and  yet  perpetually  wrung,  the  soul  of  her  wild  lover  ;  and  as 
she  now  delightedly  hung  upon  his  arm,  uttering  her  joy  at 
seeing  him  safe,  and  presently  forgetting  that  there  ever  had 
been  cause  for  alarm,  his  heart  was  filled  with  the  most  gloomy 
sense  of  horror  and  desolation.  "What,"  thought  he,  "if  this 
poor  unconscious  girl  could  dream  that  at  this  moment  I  am 
girded  with  peril,  from  which  I  see  no  ultimate  escape  ?  Delay 
it  as  I  will,  it  seems  as  if  the  blow  must  come  at  last.  What,  if 
she  could  think  how  fearful  is  my  interest  in  these  outrages,  tha* 


I#0  EUGENE     ARAM. 

in  all  probability,  if  their  authors  are  detected,  there  is  one  who 
will  drag  me  into  their  ruin  ;  that  I  am  ^iven  over,  bound  and 
blinded,  into  the  hands  of  another  ;  and  that  other,  a  man  steeled 
to  mercy,  and  withheld  from  my  destruction  by  a  thread — a 
thread  that  a  blow  on  himself  would  snap.  Great  God  !  wherever 
I  turn,  I  see  despair !  And  she — she  clings  to  me ;  and  be- 
holding me,  thinks  the  whole  earth  is  filled  with  hope !  " 

While  these  thoughts  darkened  his  mind,  Madeline  drew  him 
onward  into  the  more  sequestered  walks  of  the  garden,  to  show 
him  some  flowers  she  had  transplanted.  And  when  an  hour 
afterwards  he  returned  to  the  hall,  so  soothing  had  been  the 
influence  of  her  looks  and  words  upon  Aram,  that  if  he  had 
not  forgotten  the  situation  in  which  he  stood,  he  had  at  least 
calmed  himself  to  regard  with  a  steady  eye  the  chances  of  es- 
cape. 

The  meal  of  the  day  passed  as  cheerfully  as  usual,  and  when 
Aram  and  his  host  were  left  over  their  abstemious  potations, 
the  former  proposed  a  walk  before  the  evening  deepened.  Les- 
ter readily  consented,  and  they  sauntered  into  the  fields.  The 
squire  soon  perceived  that  something  was  on  Aram's  mind,  of 
which  he  felt  evident  embarrassment  in  ridding  himself ;  at 
length  the  student  said,  rather  abruptly  : 

"  My  dear  friend,  I  am  but  a  bad  beggar,  and  therefore  let 
me  get  over  my  request  as  expeditiously  as  possible.  You  said 
to  me  once  that  you  intended  bestowing  some  dowry  upon 
Madeline — a  dowry  I  would  and  could  willingly  dispense  with  ; 
but  should  you  of  that  sum  be  now  able  to  spare  me  some  por- 
tion as  a  loan, — should  you  have  some  three  hundred  pounds 
with  which  you  could  accommodate  me — " 

"  Say  no  more,  Eugene,  say  no  more,"  interrupted  the  squire  ; 
"  you  can  have  double  that  amount.  I  ought  to  have  foreseen 
that  your  preparations  for  your  approaching  marriage  must 
have  occasioned  you  some  inconvenience  :  you  can  have  six 
hundred  pounds  from  me  to-morrow." 

Aram's  eyes  brightened.  "It  is  too  much,  too  much,  my 
generous  friend,"  said  he  ;  "  the  half  suffices  ;  but — but,  a  debt 
of  old  stand'ng  presses  me  urgently,  and  to-morrow,  or  rather 
Monday  morning,  is  the  time  fixed  for  payment." 

"  Consider  it  arranged,"  said  Lester,  putting  his  hand  on 
Aram's  arm;  and  then  leaning  on  it  gently,  he  added,  "and 
now  that  we  are  on  this  subject,  let  me  tell  you  what  I  intended 
as  a  gift  to  you  and  my  dear  Madeline  ;  it  is  but  small,  but  my 
estates  are  rigidly  entailed  on  Walter,  and  of  poor  value  in 
themselves,  and  it  is  half  the  savings  ot  many  years." 


EUGENE     ARAM.  tt 

The  squire  then  named  a  sum,  which,  however  small  it  may 
seem  to  our  reader,  was  not  considered  a  despicable  portion  for 
the  daughter  of  a  small  country  squire  at  that  day,  and  was,  in 
reality,  a  generous  sacrifice  for  one  whose  whole  income  was 
scarcely,  at  the  most,  seven  hundred  a  year.  The  sum  men- 
tioned doubled  that  now  to  be  lent,  and  which  was  of  course 
a  part  of  it ;  an  equal  portion  was  reserved  for  Ellinor. 

"  And  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  the  squire,  "  you  must  give 
me  some  little  time  for  the  remainder ;  for  not  thinking  some 
months  ago  it  would  be  so  soon  wanted,  I  laid  out  eighteen 
hundred  pounds  in  the  purchase  of  Winclose  farm,  six  of  which 
(the  remainder  of  your  share)  I  can  pay  off  at  the  end  of  the 
year :  the  other  twelve,  Ellinor's  portion,  will  remain  a  mort- 
gage on  the  farm  itself.  And  between  us,"  added  the  squire, 
"  I  do  hope  that  I  need  be  in  no  hurry  respecting  her,  dear 
girl.  When  Walter  returns,  I  trust  matters  may  be  arranged 
in  a  manner,  and  through  a  channel,  that  would  gratify  the 
most  cherished  wish  of  my  heart.  I  am  convinced  that  Ellinor 
is  exactly  suited  to  him,  and,  unless  he  should  lose  his  senses 
for  some  one  else  in  the  course  of  his  travels,  I  trust  that  he 
will  not  be  long  returned  before  he  will  make  the  same  discov- 
ery. I  think  of  writing  to  him  very  shortly  after  your  marriage, 
and  making  him  promise,  at  all  events,  to  revisit  us  at  Christ- 
mas. Ah  !  Eugene,  we  shall  be  a  happy  party  then,  I  trust. 
And  be  assured  that  we  shall  beat  up  your  quarters,  and  put 
your  hospitality,  and  Madeline's  housewifery,  to  the  test." 

Therewith,  the  good  squire  ran  on  for  some  minutes  in  the 
warmth  of  his  heart,  dilating  on  the  fireside  prospects  before 
them,  and  rallying  the  student  on  those  secluded  habits,  which 
he  promised  him  he  should  no  longer  indulge  with  impunity. 

"  But  it  is  growing  dark,"  said  he,  awakening  from  the 
theme  which  had  carried  him  away,  "and  by  this  time  Peter  and 
our  patrol  will  be  at  the  hall.  I  told  them  to  look  up  in  the 
evening,  in  order  to  appoint  their  several  duties  and  stations ; 
let  us  turn  back.  Indeed,  Aram,  I  can  assure  you,  that  I,  for 
my  own  part,  have  strong  reasons  to  take  precautions  against 
any  attack  ;  for  besides  the  old  family  plate  (though  that's  not 
much),  I  have, — you  know  the  bureau  in  the  parlor  to 
the  left  of  the  hall  ? — well,  I  have  in  that  bureau  three  hun- 
dred guineas,  which  I  have  not  as  yet  been  able  to  take  to  safe 

hands  at ,  and  which,  by  the  way,  will  be  yours  to-morrow. 

So,  you  see,  it  would  be  no  light  misfortune  to  me  to  be  robbed." 

"  Hist ! "  said  Aram,  stopping  short ;  "  I  think  I  heard  steps 
on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge." 


182  EUGENE      ARAM. 

The  squire  listened,  but  heard  nothing ;  the  senses  of  his 
companion  were,  however,  remarkably  acute,  more  especially 
that  of  hearing. 

"  There  is  certainly  some  one ;  nay,  I  catch  the  steps  of  two 
persons,"  whispered  he  to  Lester. 

"  Let  us  come  round  the  hedge  by  the  gap  below." 

They  both  quickened  their  pace,  and  gaining  the  other  side 
of  the  hedge,  did  indeed  perceive  two  men  in  carters'  frocks, 
strolling  on  toward  the  village. 

"  They  are  strangers,  too,"  said  the  squire  suspiciously ; 
"  not  Grassdale  men.  Humph  !  could  they  have  overheard  us, 
think  you  ?  " 

"  If  men  whose  business  is  to  overhear  their  neighbors — yes  ; 
but  not  if  they  be  honest  men,"  answered  Aram,  in  one  of 
those  shrewd  remarks  which  he  often  uttered,  and  which 
seemed  almost  incompatible  with  the  tenor  of  those  quiet  and 
abstruse  pursuits  that  generally  deaden  the  mind  to  worldly 
wisdom. 

They  had  now  approached  the  strangers,  who,  however,  ap- 
peared mere  rustic  clowns,  and  who  pulled  off  their  hats  with 
the  wonted  obeisance  of  their  tribe. 

"  Holla,  my  men,"  said  the  squire,  assuming  his  magisterial 
air  ;  for  the  mildest  squire  in  Christendom  can  play  the  bashaw 
when  he  remembers  he  is  a  justice  of  the  peace.  "  Holla  ! 
whal  are  you  doing  here  this  time  of  day  ?  You  are  not  after 
any  good,  I  fear." 

"  We  ax  pardon,  your  honor,"  said  the  elder  clown,  in  the 
peculiar  accent  of  the  country,  "  but  we  be  come  from  Glads- 
muir,  and  be  going  to  work  at  Squire  Nixon's,  at  Mowhall,  on 
Monday ;  so  as  I  has  a  brother  living  on  the  green  afore  the 
squire's,  we  be  a  going  to  sleep  at  his  house  to-night,  and  spend 
the  Sunday  there,  your  honor." 

"Humph  !  humph  !     What's  your  name?  " 

"  Joe  Wood,  your  honor,  and  this  here  chap  is  Will  Hutchings." 

"  Well,  well,  go  along  with  you,"  said  the  squire  ;  "  and  mind 
what  you  are  about.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  you  snared 
one  of  Squire  Nixon's  hares  by  the  way." 

"  Oh,  well  and  indeed,  your  honor — " 

"Go  along,  go  along,"  said  the  squire,  and  away  went  the  men. 

"They  seem  honest  bumpkins  enough,"  observed  Lester. 

''  It  would  have  pleased  me  better,"  said  Aram,  "  had  the 
speaker  of  the  two  particularized  less  ;  and  you  observed  that 
he  seemed  eager  not  to  let  his  companion  speak  ;  that  is  a  little 
suspicious." 


EUGENE     ARAM.  jg* 

*  Shall  I  call  them  back  ? "  asked  the  squire. 

"  Why,  it  is  scarcely  worth  while,"  said  Aram  ;  "  perhaps  1 
over-refine.  And  now  I  look  again  at  them,  they  seem  really 
what  they  affect  to  be.  No,  it  is  useless  to  molest  the  pool 
wretches  any  more.  There  is  something.  Lester,  humbling  to 
human  pride  in  a  rustic's  life.  It  grates  against  the  heart  to 
think  of  the  tone  in  which  we  unconsciously  permit  ourselves 
to  address  him.  We  see  in  him  humanity  in  its  simple  state  ; 
it  is  a  sad  thought  to  feel  that  we  despise  it,  that  all  we  respect 
in  our  species  is  what  has  been  created  by  art :  the  gaudy  dress, 
the  glittering  equipage,  or  even  the  cultivated  intellect  ;  the 
mere  and  naked  material  of  nature  we  eye  with  indifference 
or  trample  on  with  disdain.  Poor  child  of  toil,  from  the  gray 
dawn  to  the  setting  sun,  one  long  task  ! — no  idea  elicited — no 
thought  awakened  beyond  those  that  suffice  to  make  him  the 
machine  of  others — the  serf  of  the  hard  soil.  And  then,  too, 
mark  how  we  scowl  upon  his  scanty  holidays,  how  we 
hedge  in  his  mirth  with  laws,  and  turn  his  hilarity  into  crime ! 
We  make  the  whole  of  the  gay  world  wherein  we  walk  and 
take  our  pleasure  to  him  a  place  of  snares  and  perils.  If  he 
leave  his  labor  for  an  instant,  in  that  instant  how  many 
temptations  spring  up  to  him  !  And  yet  we  have  no  mercy 
for  his  errors  ;  the  gaol — the  transport  ship — the  gallows  ; 
those  are  the  illustrations  of  our  lecture-books, — those  the 
bounds  of  every  vista  that  we  cut  through  the  labyrinth  of  our 
laws.  Ah,  fie  on  the  disparities  of  the  world  !  They  cripple 
the  heart,  they  blind  the  sense,  they  concentrate  the  thousand 
links  between  man  and  man  into  the  two  basest  of  earthly 
ties — servility  and  pride.  Methinks  the  devils  laugh  out 
when  they  hear  us  tell  the  poor  that  his  soul  is  as  glorious  and 
eternal  as  our  own  ;  and  yet  when  in  the  grinding  drudgery 
of  his  life,  not  a  spark  of  that  soul  can  be  called  forth  ;  when 
it  sleeps,  walled  around  in  its  lumpish  clay,  from  the  cradle  to 
the  grave,  without  a  dream  to  stir  the  deadness  of  its  torpor." 

"  And  yet,  Aram,"  said  Lester,  "  the  lords  of  science  have 
their  ills.  Exalt  the  soul  as  you  will,  you  cannot  raise  it  above 
pain.  Better,  perhaps,  to  let  it  sleep,  since  in  waking  it  looks 
only  upon  a  world  of  trial." 

"  You  say  well,  you  say  well,"  said  Aram,  smiting  his  heart ; 
"  and  I  suffered  a  foolish  sentiment  to  carry  me  beyond  th« 
sober  boundaries  of  our  daily  sense." 


184  EUGENE     ARAM. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MILITARY  PREPARATIONS. — THE  COMMANDER  AND  HIS  MEN. — 
ARAM  IS  PERSUADED  TO  PASS  THE  NIGHT  AT  THE  MANOR- 
HOUSE. 

"  Falstaff. — Bid  my  lieutenant  Peto  meet  me  at  the  town's  end 

I  pressed  me  none  but  such  toasts  and  butter,  with  hearts  in  their  bellies  no 
bigger  than  pins'  heads." — First  Part  of  King  Henty  IV. 

THEY  had  scarcely  reached  the  manor-house  before  the 
rain,  which  the  clouds  had  portended  throughout  the  whole 
day,  began  to  descend  in  torrents,  and.  to  use  the  strong  ex- 
pression of  the  Latin  poet,  the  night  rushed  down,  black  and 
sudden  over  the  face  of  the  earth. 

The  new  watch  were  not  by  any  means  the  hardy  and  ex- 
perienced soldiery,  by  whom  rain  and  darkness  are  unheeded, 
They  looked  with  great  dismay  upon  the  character  of  the  night 
in  which  their  campaign  was  to  commence.  The  valorous  Peter, 
who  had  sustained  his  own  courage  by  repeated  applications  to 
a  little  bottle,  which  he  never  failed  to  carry  about  him  in  all 
the  more  bustling  and  enterprising  occasions  of  life,  endeavored, 
but  with  partial  success,  to  maintain  the  ardor  of  his  band. 
Seated  in  the  servants'  hall  of  the  manor-house,  in  a  large  arm- 
chair, Jacobina  on  his  knee,  and  his  trusty  musket,  which,  to 
the  great  terror  of  the  womankind,  had  never  been  uncocked 
throughout  the  day,  still  grasped  in  his  right  hand,  while  the  stock 
was  grounded  on  the  floor  ;  he  indulged  in  martial  harangues, 
plentifully  interlarded  with  plagiarisms  from  the  worship, 
ful  translations  of  Messrs.  Sternhold  and  Hopkins,  and  psalm- 
odic  versions  of  a  more  doubtful  authorship.  And  when  at  the 
hour  of  ten,  which  was  the  appointed  time,  he  led  his  warlike 
force,  which  consisted  of  six  rustics,  armed  with  sticks  of  in^ 
credible  thickness,  three  guns,  one  pistol,  a  broadsword,  and  a 
pitchfork  (the  last  a  weapon  likely  to  be  more  effectively  used 
than  all  the  rest  put  together)  ;  when  at  the  hour  of  ten  he  led 
them  up  to  the  room  above,  where  they  were  to  be  passed  in 
review  before  the  critical  eye  of  the  squire,  with  Jacobina 
leading  the  on-guard,  you  could  not  fancy  a  prettier  picture 
for  a  hero  in  a  little  way  than  mine  host  of  The  Spotted  Dog. 

His  hat  was  fastened  tight  on  his  brow  by  a  blue  pocket- 
handkerchief ;  he  wore  a  spencer  of  a  light  brown  drugget,  a 
world  too  loose,  above  a  leather  jerkin  ;  his  breeches  of  cordu- 
roy were  met  all  of  a  sudden,  half-way  up  the  thigh,  by  a  de- 


EUGENE     ARAM.  185 

tachment  of  Hessians,  formerly  in  the  service  of  the  corporal, 
and  bought  some  time  since  by  Peter  Dealtry  to  wear  when 
employed  in  shooting  snipes  for  the  squire,  to  whom  he  occas- 
ionally performed  the  office  of  gamekeeper  ;  suspended  round 
his  wrist  by  a  bit  of  black  riband  was  his  constable's  baton  ; 
he  shouldered  his  musket  gallantly,  and  he  carried  his  person 
as  erect  as  if  the  least  deflection  from  its  perpendicularity  were 
to  cost  him  his  life.  One  may  judge  of  the  revolution  that 
had  taken  place  in  the  village,  when  so  peaceable  a  man  as 
Peter  Dealtry  was  thus  metamorphosed  into  a  commander-in- 
chief  !  The  rest  of  the  regiment  hung  sheepishly  back,  each 
trying  to  get  as  near  to  the  door,  and  as  far  from  the  ladies,  as 
possible,  but  Peter  having  made  up  his  mind  that  a  hero  should 
only  look  straight  forward,  did  not  condescend  to  turn  round 
to  perceive  the  irregularity  of  his  line.  Secure  in  his  own  ex- 
istence, he  stood  truculently  forth,  facing  the  squire,  and  pre- 
pared to  receive  his  plaudits. 

Madeline  and  Aram  sat  apart  at  one  corner  of  the  hearth, 
and  Ellinor  leaned  over  the  chair  of  the  former ;  the  mirth 
that  she  struggled  to  suppress  from  being  audible  mantling  over 
her  arch  face  and  laughing  eyes,  while  the  squire,  taking 
the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  turned  round  on  his  easy-chair,  and 
nodded  complacently  to  the  little  corps  and  the  great  com- 
mander. 

"We  are  all  ready  now,  your  honor,"  said  Peter,  in  a  voice 
that  did  not  seem  to  belong  to  his  body,  so  big  did  it  sound, — 
"  all  hot,  all  eager." 

"Why,  you  yourself  are  a  host,  Peter,"  said  Ellinor, with  af- 
fected gravity  ;"  your  sight  alone  would  frighten  an  army  of 
robbers  :  who  could  have  thought  you  could  assume  so  military 
an  air  ?  The  corporal  himself  was  never  so  upright  ! " 

"  I  have  practised  my  present  ^attitude  all  the  day,  miss," 
said  Peter  proudly  ;  "  and  I  believe  I  may  now  say,  as  Mr. 
Sternhold  says  or  sings,  in  the  twenty-sixth  Psalm,  verse  twelfth: 

4  My  foot  is  stayed  for  all  essays, 

It  standeth  well  and  right ; 
Wherefore  to  God  will  I  give  praise 
In  all  the  people's  sight  ! ' 

Jacobina,  behave  yourself,  child.  I  don't  think,  your  honor, 
that  we  miss  the  corporal  so  much  as  I  fancied  at  first,  for  we 
all  does  very  well  without  him." 

"  Indeed,  you  are  a  most  worthy  substitute,  Peter.  And  now 
Nell,  just  reach  me  my  hat  and  cloak  :  I  will  set  you  at  youi 
posts  :  you  will  have  an  ugly  night  of  it." 


l86  EUGENE      ARAM. 

''  Very,  indeed,  your  honor,"  cried  all  the  army,  speaking 
for  the  first  time. 

"  Silence — order — discipline,"  said  Peter  gruffly.    "  March  ! " 

But,  instead  of  marching  across  the  hall,  the  recruits  huddled 
up  one  after  the  other,  like  a  flock  of  geese,  whom  Jacobina 
might  be  supposed  to  have  set  in  motion,  and  each  scraping  to 
the  ladies,  as  they  shuffled,  sneaked,  bundled,  and  bustled  out 
at  the  door. 

"We  are  well  guarded  now,  Madeline,"  said  Ellinor.  "I 
fancy  we  may  go  to  sleep  as  safely  as  if  there  were  not  a  house- 
breaker in  the  world." 

"  Why,"  said  Madeline,  "  let  us  trust  they  will  be  more 
efficient  than  they  seem,  though  I  cannot  persuade  myself  that 
we  shall  really  need  them.  One  might  almost  as  well  conceive 
a  tiger  in  our  arbor  as  a  robber  in  Grassdale.  But  dear,  dear 
Eugene, do  not,  do  not  leave  us  this  night:  Walter's  room  is 
ready  for  you,  and  if  it  were  only  to  walk  across  that  valley 
in  such  weather,  it  would  be  cruel  to  leave  us.  Let  me  be- 
seech you ;  come,  you  cannot,  you  dare  not  refuse  me  such  a 
favor." 

Aram  pleaded  his  vow,  but  it  was  overruled  ;  Madeline 
proved  herself  a  most  exquisite  casuist  in  setting  it  aside.  One 
by  one  his  objections  were  broken  down  ;  and  how,  as  he  gazed 
into  those  eyes,  could  he  keep  any  resolution  that  Madeline 
wished  him  to  break  ?  The  power  she  possessed  over  him 
seemed  exactly  in  proportion  to  his  impregnability  to  every 
one  else.  The  surface  on  which  the  diamond  cuts  its  easy  way 
will  yield  to  no  more  ignoble  instrument  ;  it  is  easy  to  shatter 
it,  but  by  only  one  pure  and  precious  gem  can  it  be  shaped. 
But  if  Aram  remained  at  the  house  this  night,  how  could  he 
well  avoid  a  similar  compliance  the  next?  And  on  the  next 
was  his  interview  with  Houseman.  This  reason  for  resistance 
yielded  to  Madeline's  soft  entreaties;  he  trusted  to  the  time 
to  furnish  him  with  excuses  ;  and  when  Lester  returned,  Mad- 
eline, with  a  triumphant  air,  informed  him  that  Aram  had  con- 
sented to  be  their  guest  for  the  night. 

"  Your  influence  is  indeed  greater  than  mine,"  said  Lester, 
wringing  his  hat  as  the  delicate  fingers  of  Ellinor  loosened  his 
cloak  ;  "  yet  one  can  scarcely  think  our  friend  sacrifices  much 
in  concession,  after  proving  the  weather  without.  I  should 
pity  our  poor  patrol  most  exceedingly  if  I  were  not  thoroughly 
assured  that  within  two  hours  every  one  of  them  will  have 
quietly  slunk  home  ;  and  even  Peter  himself,  when  he  has  ex- 
hausted his  bottle,  will  be  the  first  to  set  the  example.  How- 


EUGENE      ARAM.  187 

<£ver,  I  have  stationed  two  of  the  men  near  our  house,  and  the 
rest  at  equal  distances  along  the  village." 

"  Do  you  really  think  they  will  go  home,  sir?  "  said  Ellinor, 
in  a  little  alarm  ;  "  why,  they  would  be  worse  than  I  thought 
them,  if  they  were  driven  to  bed  by  the  rain.  I  knew  they 
could  not  stand  a  pistol,  but  a  shower,  however  hard,  I  did 
imagine  would  scarcely  quench  their  valor." 

"  Never  mind,  girl,"  said  Lester,  gaily  chucking  her  under 
the  chin,  "we  are  quite  strong  enough  now  to  resist  them.  You 
see  Madeline  has  grown  as  brave  as  a  lioness.  Come,  girls  ; 
come,  let's  have  supper,  and  stir  up  the  fire.  And,  Nell,  where 
are  my  slippers  ?" 

And  thus  on  the  little  family  scene,  the  cheerful  wood  fire  flick- 
ering against  the  polished  wainscot ;  the  supper-table  arranged, 
the  squire  drawing  his  oak  chair  toward  it,  Ellinor  mixing  his 
negus  ;  and  Aram  and  Madeline,  though  three  times  summoned 
to  the  table,  and  having  three  times  answered  to  the  summons, 
still  lingering  apart  by  the  hearth — let  us  drop  the  curtain. 

We  have  only,  ere  we  close  our  chapter,  to  observe,  that 
when  Lester  conducted  Aram  to  his  chamber,  he  placed  in  his 
hands  an  order,  payable  at  the  county  town,  for  three  hundred 
pounds.  "The  rest,"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  "  is  below,  where  I 
mentioned  ;  and  there,  in  my  secret  drawer,  it  had  better  rest 
till  the  morning." 

The  good  squire  then,  putting  his  finger  to  his  lip,  hurried 
away,  to  avoid  the  thanks ;  which,  indeed,  whatever  gratitude 
he  might  feel,  Aram  was  ill  able  to  express. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  SISTERS   ALONE. — THE   GOSSIP    OF   LOVE. — AN    ALARM,  AND 

AN    EVENT. 

"Juliet.  My  true  love  is  grown  to  such  excess, 
I  cannot  sum  up  half  my  sum  of  wealth."—  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

"  Eros.  Oh,  a  man  in  arms  ; 

His  weapon  drawn  too  !  " — The  False  One. 

IT  was  a  custom  with  the  two  sisters,  when  they  repaired  to 
their  chamber  for  the  night,  to  sit  conversing,  sometimes  even 
for  hours,  before  they  finally  retired  to  bed.  This,  indeed,  was 
:he  usual  time  for  their  little  confidences,  and  their  mutual  di- 


188  EUGENE      ARAM. 

lations  over  those  hopes  and  plans  for  the  future,  which  al- 
ways occupy  the  larger  share  of  the  thoughts  and  conversation 
of  the  young.  I  do  not  know  anything  in  the  world  more  love- 
ly than  such  conferences  between  two  beings  who  have  no  se- 
crets to  relate  but  what  arise,  all  fresh,  from  the  springs  of  a 
guileless  heart, — those  pure  and  beautiful  mysteries  of  an  un- 
sullied nature  which  warm  us  to  hear  ;  and  we  think  with  a 
sort  of  wonder  when  we  feel  how  arid  experience  has  made 
ourselves,  that  so  much  of  the  dew  and  sparkle  of  existence 
still  lingers  in  the  nooks  and  valleys,  which  are  as  yet  virgin  of 
the  sun  and  of  mankind. 

The  sisters  this  night  were  more  than  commonly  indifferent 
to  sleep.  Madeline  sat  by  the  small  but  bright  hearth  of  the 
chamber,  in  her  night-dress,  and  Ellinor,  who  was  much 
prouder  of  her  sister's  beauty  than  her  own,  was  employed  in 
knotting  up  the  long  and  lustrous  hair  which  fell  in  rich  lux- 
uriance over  Madeline's  throat  and  shoulders. 

"  There  certainly  never  was  such  beautiful  hair  !  "  said  Elli- 
nor admiringly.  "  And,  let  me  see, — yes, — on  Thursday  fort- 
night I  may  be  dressing  it,  perhaps,  for  the  last  time — heigho  !  " 

"  Don't  flatter  yourself  that  you  are  so  near  the  end  of  your 
troublesome  duties,"  said  Madeline,  with  her  pretty  smile, 
which  had  been  much  brighter  and  more  frequent  of  late  than 
it  was  formerly  wont  to  be  ;  so  that  Lester  had  remarked,  "  That 
Madeline  really  appeared  to  have  become  the  lighter  and  gayer 
of  the  two." 

"  You  will  often  come  to  stay  with  us  for  weeks  together,  at 
least  till — till  you  have  a  double  right  to  be  mistress  here. 
Ah  !  my  poor  hair, — you  need  not  pull  it  so  hard." 

"  Be  quiet,  then,"  said  Ellinor,  half  laughing,  and  wUolly 
blushing. 

"  Trust  me,  I  have  not  been  in  love  myself  without  learning 
its  signs  ;  and  I  venture  to  prophesy  that  within  six  months 
you  will  come  to  consult  me  whether  or  not — for  there  is  a 
great  deal  to  be  said  on  both  sides  of  the  question — you  can 
make  up  your  mind  to  sacrifice  your  own  wishes  and  marry 
Walter  Lester.  Ah  ! — gently,  gently  !  Nell — " 

"Promise  to  be  quiet." 

"  I  will — I  will ;  but  you  began  it." 

As  Ellinor  now  finished  her  task,  and  kissed  her  sister's 
forehead,  she  sighed  deeply. 

"  Happy  Walter  !  "  said  Madeline. 

"  I  was  not  sighing  for  Walter,  but  for  you." 

''For  me  ? — impossible  !  "     I  cannot  imagine  any  part  of  my 


EUGENE      ARAM.  189 

future  life  that  can  cost  you  a  sigh.  Ah,  that  I  were  more 
worthy  of  my  happiness  !  " 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Ellinor,  "  I  sighed  for  myself  ;  I  sighed 
to  think  we  should  so  soon  be  parted,  and  that  the  continu- 
ance of  your  society  would  then  depend,  not  on  our  mutual 
love,  but  on  the  will  of  another." 

"  What,  Ellinor,  and  can  you  suppose  that  Eugene — my  Eu- 
gene— would  not  welcome  you  as  warmly  as  myself  ?  Ah  ! 
you  misjudge  him  ;  I  know  you  have  not  yet  perceived  how 
tender  a  heart  lies  beneath  all  that  melancholy  and  reserve." 

"  I  feel,  indeed,"  said  Ellinor  warmly,  "  as  if  it  were  impos- 
sible that  one  whom  you  love  should  not  be  all  that  is  good 
and  noble  :  yet  if  this  reserve  of  his  should  increase,  as  is  at 
least  possible,  with  increasing  years  ;  if  our  society  should  be- 
come again,  as  it  once  was,  distasteful  to  him,  should  I  not  lose 
you,  Madeline?  " 

"  But  his  reserve  cannot  increase  :  do  you  not  perceive  how 
much  it  is  softened  already?  Ah!  be  assured  that  I  will 
charm  it  away." 

"But  what  is  the  cause  of  the  melancholy  that  even  now,  at 
times,  evidently  preys  upon  him  ?  Has  he  never  revealed  it  to 
you  ? " 

"  It  is  merely  the  early  and  long  habit  of  solitude  and  study, 
Ellinor,"  replied  Madeline  :  "and  shall  I  own  to  you,  I  would 
scarcely  wish  that  away  ?  His  tenderness  itself  seems  linked 
with  his  melancholy  ;  it  is  like  a  sad  but  gentle  music,  that 
brings  tears  into  our  eyes,  but  who  would  change  it  for  gayer 
airs  ?" 

"Well,  I  must  own,"  said  Ellinor  reluctantly,  "  that  I  no 
longer  wonder  at  your  infatuation  ;  I  can  no  longer  chide  you 
as  I  once  did  :  there  is,  assuredly,  something  in  his  voice,  his 
look,  which  irresistibly  sinks  into  the  heart.  And  there  are 
moments  when,  what  with  his  eyes  and  forehead,  his  coun- 
tenance seems  more  beautiful,  more  impressive,  than  any  I 
ever  beheld.  Perhaps,  too,  for  you,  it  is  better  that  your  lover 
should  be  no  longer  in  the  first  flush  of  youth.  Your  nature 
seems  to  require  something  to  venerate  as  well  as  to  love.  And 
I  have  ever  observed  at  prayers,  that  you  seem  more  especially 
rapt  and  carried  beyond  yourself,  in  those  passages  which  call 
peculiarly  for  worship  and  adoration." 

"Yes,  dearest,"  said  Madeline  fervently,  "I  own  that  Eu- 
gene is  of  all  beings — not  only  of  all  whom  I  ever  knew  but  of 
all  whom  I  everdreamed, or  imagined, — the  one  that  I  am  most 
fitted  10  love  and  to  appreciate.  His  wisdom,  but,  more  than 


190  EUGENE      ARAM. 

that,  the  lofty  tenor  of  his  mind,  calls  forth  all  that  is  highest 
and  best  in  my  own  nature.  I  feel  exalted  when  I  listened  to 
him  ;  and  yet,  how  gentle,  with  all  that  nobleness  !  And  to 
think  that  he  should  descend  to  love  me,  and  so  to  love  me  ! 
It  is  as  if  a  star  were  to  leave  its  sphere  !  " 

"  Hark  !  one  o'clock,"  said  Ellinor,  as  the  deep  voice  of  the 
clock  told  the  first  hour  of  morning.  "  Heavens  !  how  much 
louder  the  winds  rave  !  And  how  the  heavy  sleet  drives 
against  the  window  !  Our  poor  watch  without ! — but  you  may 
be  sure  my  father  was  right,  and  they  are  safe  at  home  by  this 
time  ;  nor  is  it  likely,  I  should  think,  that  even  robbers  would 
be  abroad  in  such  weather !  " 

''  I  have  heard,"  said  Madeline,  "  that  robbers  generally 
choose  these  dark,  stormy  nights  for  their  designs  ;  but  I  con- 
fess I  don't  feel  much  alarm,  and  he  is  in  the  house.  Draw 
nearer  to  the  fire,  Ellinor ;  is  it  not  pleasant  to  see  how  serene- 
ly it  burns,  while  the  storm  howls  without  ?  It  is  like  my  Eu- 
gene's soul,  luminous  and  lone  amidst  the  roar  and  darkness 
of  this  unquiet  world  !  " 

"There  spoke  himself,"  said  Ellinor,  smiling  to  perceive 
how  invariably  women  who  love  imitate  the  tone  of  the  be- 
loved one.  And  Madeline  felt  it,  and  smiled  too. 

"  Hist !"  said  Ellinor  abruptly;  "did  you  not  hear  a  low, 
grating  noise  below?  Ah  !  the  winds  noiv  prevent  your  catch- 
ing the  sound  ;  but  hush,  hush  ! — the  wind  pauses, — there  it  is 
again  ! " 

"Yes,  I  hear  it,"  said  Madeline,  turning  pale  ;  "it  seems  in 
the  little  parlor  ;  a  continued,  harsh,  but  very  low,  noise. 
Good  heavens  !  it  seems  at  the  window  below." 

"It  is  like  a  file,"  whispered  Ellinor  ;  perhaps — 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Madeline,  suddenly  rising  ;  "  it  is  a 
file,  and  at  the  bars  my  father  had  fixed  against  the  window 
yesterday.  Let  us  go  down  and  alarm  the  house." 

"No,  no  ;  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  be  so  rash,"  cried  Elli- 
nor, losing  all  presence  of  mind  :  "  hark  !  the  sound  ceases, 

there  is.  a  louder  noise  below,— and   steps.     Let  us  lock  the 

j        „ 

door. 

But  Madeline  was  of  that  fine  and  high  order  of  spirit, 
which  rises  in  proportion  to  danger,  and  calming  her  sister  as 
well  as  she  could,  she  seized  the  light  with  a  steady  hand, 
opened  the  door,  and  (Ellinor  still  clinging  to  her)  passed 
the  landing-place,  and  hastened  to  her  father's  room  :  he  slept 
at  the  opposite  corner  of  the  staircase.  Aram's  chamber  was 
at  the  extreme  end  of  the  house.  Before  she  reached  the  door 


EUGENE      ARAM.  19! 

of  Lestei's  apartment,  the  noise  below  grew  loud  and  distinct — • 
a  scuffle — voices — curses — and  now — the  sound  of  a  pistol  ! — 
in  a  minute  more  the  whole  house  was  stirring.  Lester  in  his 
night  robe,  his  broadsword  in  his  hand,  and  his  long  gray  hair 
floating  behind,  was  the  first  to  appear  :  the  servants,  old  and 
young,  male  and  female,  now  came  thronging  simultaneously 
round  ;  and  in  a  general  body,  Lester  several  paces  at  their 
head,  his  daughters  following  next  to  him,  they  rushed  to  the 
apartment  whence  the  noise,  now  suddenly  stilled,  had  pro- 
ceeded. 

The  window  was  opened,  evidently  by  force  :  an  instrument 
like  a  wedge  was  fixed  in  the  bureau  containing  Lester's  mon- 
ey, and  seemed  to  have  been  left  there,  as  if  the  person  using 
it  had  been  disturbed  before  the  design  for  which  it  was  intro- 
duced had  been  accomplished,  and  (the  only  evidence  of  life) 
Aram  stood,  dressed,  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  a  pistol  in  his 
left  hand,  a  sword  in  his  right ;  a  bludgeon  severed  in  two  lay 
at  his  feet,  and  on  the  floor  within  two  yards  of  him,  toward 
the  window,  drops  of  blood  yet  warm  showed  that  the  pistol  had 
not  been  discharged  in  vain. 

"  And  is  it  you,  my  brave  friend,  whom  I  have  to  thank  for 
our  safety  ?  "  cried  Lester,  in  great  emotion. 

"You,  Eugene !  "  repeated  Madeline,  sinking  on  his  breast. 

"  But  thanks  hereafter,"  continued  Lester  ;  "  let  us  now  to 
the  pursuit, — perhaps  the  villain  may  have  perished  beneath 
your  bullet  !  " 

"  Ha  !"  muttered  Aram,  who  had  hitherto  seemed  uncon- 
scious of  all  around  him;  so  fixed  had  been  his  eye,  so  color- 
less his  cheek,  so  motionless  his  posture.  .  "  Ha  !  say  you  so? — 
think  you  I  have  slain  him  ?  No  !  it  cannot  be — the  ball  did 
not  slay;  I  saw.  him  stagger;  but  he  rallied — not  so  one  who 
receives  a  mortal  wound  ?  Ha  !  h!a  ! — there  is  blood,  you  say : 
that  is  true  ;  but  what  then  ? — it  is  not  the  first  wound  that 
kills  ;  you  must  strike  again.  Pooh,  pooh  !  what  is  a  little 
blood  ? " 

While  he  was  thus  muttering,  Lester  and  the  more  active  of 
the  servants  had  already  sallied  through  the  window  ;  but  the 
night  was  so  intensely  dark  that  they  could  not  see  a  step  be- 
yond them.  Lester  returned,  therefore,  in  a  few  moments, 
and  met  Aram's  dark  eye  fixed  upon  him  with  an  unutterable 
expression  of  anxiety. 

"You  have  found  no  one?"  said  he,  "no  dying-  man? 
Ha  ? — well — well — well  !  they  must  both  have  escaped  ;  the 
Tvight  must  favor  them." 


192  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"  Do  you  fancy  the  villain  was  severely  wounded  ?  " 

"  Not  so — I  trust  not  so  ;  he  seemed  able  to —  But  stop — • 
oh  God  ! — stop  !  your  foot  is  dabbling  in  blood — blood  shed 
by  me, — off  !  off  !  " 

Lester  moved  aside  with  a  quick  abhorrence,  as  he  saw  that 
his  feet  were  indeed  smearing  the  blood  over  the  polished  and 
slippery  surface  of  the  oak  boards,  and  in  moving  he  stumbled 
against  a  dark  lantern  in  which  the  light  still  burned,  and 
which  the  robbers  in  their  flight  had  left. 

"  Yes,"  said  Aram,  observing  it,  "  it  was  by  that,  their  own 
light,  that  I  saw  them — saw  their  faces — and — and  (bursting 
into  a  loud,  wild  laugh) — they  were  both  strangers  !  " 

"  Ah ,  I  thought  so,  I  knew  so,"  said  Lester,  plucking  the 
instrument  from  the  bureau.  "  I  know  they  could  be  no 
Grassdale  men.  What  did  you  fancy  they  could  be  ?  But — 
bless  me,  Madeline — what  ho  !  help  !  Aram,  she  has  fainted  at 
your  feet  !  " 

And  it  was  indeed  true  and  remarkable  that  so  utter  had 
been  the  absorption  of  Aram's  mind,  that  he  had  been  not 
only  insensible  to  the  entrance  of  Madeline,  but  even  uncon- 
scious that  she  had  thrown  herself  on  his  breast.  And  she, 
overcome  by  her  feelings,  had  slid  to  the  ground  from  that 
momentary  resting-place,  in  a  swoon  which  Lester,  in  the 
general  tumult  and  confusion,  was  now  the  first  to  perceive. 

At  this  exclamation,  at  the  sound  of  Madeline's  name,  the 
blood  rushed  back  from  Aram's  heart,  where  it  had  gathered,  icy 
and  curdling  ;  and,  awakened  thoroughly  and  at  once  to  him- 
self, he  knelt  down,  and  weaving  his  arms  around  her,  sup- 
ported her  head  on  his  breast,  and  called  upon  her  with  the 
most  passionate  and  moving  exclamations. 

But  when  the  faint  bloom  retinged  her  cheek,  and  her  lips 
stirred,  he  printed  a  long  kiss  on  that  cheek — on  those  lips, 
and  surrendered  his  post  to  Ellinor  ;  who  blushingly  gathering 
the  robe  over  the  beautiful  breast  from  which  it  had  been 
slightly  drawn,  now  entreated  all,  save  the  women  of  the 
house,  to  withdraw  till  her  sister  was  restored. 

Lester,  eager  to  hear  what  his  guest  could  relate,  therefore 
took  Aram  to  his  own  apartment,  where  the  particulars  were 
briefly  told. 

Suspecting,  which  indeed  was  the  chief  reason  that  excused 
him  to  himself  in  yielding  to  Madeline's  request,  that  the 
men  Lester  and  himself  had  encountered  in  their  evening  walk 
might  be  other  than  they  seemed,  and  that  they  might  have 
well  overheard  Lester's  communication  as  to  the  sum  in  his 


EUGENE     ARAM.  193 

house,  and  the  place  where  it  was  stored — he  had  not  undressed 
himself,  but  kept  the  door  of  his  room  open  to  listen  if  any- 
thing stirred.  The  keen  sense  of  hearing,  which  we  have 
before  remarked  him  to  possess,  enabled  him  to  catch  the  sound 
of  the  file  at  the  bars,  even  before  Ellinor,  notwithstanding  the 
distance  of  his  own  chamber  from  the  place,  and  seizing  the 
sword  which  had  been  left  in  his  room  (the  pistol  was  his  own), 
he  had  descended  to  the  room  below. 

"What  !  "  said  Lester,  "and  without  a  light?" 

"  The  darkness  is  familiar  to  me,"  said  Aram.  "  I  could  walk 
by  the  edge  of  a  precipice  in  the  darkest  night  without  one 
false  step,  if  I  had  but  once  passed  it  before.  I  did  not  gain 
the  room,  however,  till  the  window  had  been  forced ;  and  by 
the  light  of  a  dark  lantern  which  one  of  them  held,  I  perceived 
two  men  standing  by  the  bureau  ;  the  rest  you  can  imagine ; 
mv  victory  was  easy,  for  the  bludgeon,  which  one  of  them 
aimed  at  me,  gave  way  at  once  to  the  edge  of  your  good  sword, 
and  my  pistol  delivered  me  of  the  other.  There  ends  the 
history." 

Lester  overwhelmed  him  with  thanks  and  praises,  but  Aram, 
glad  to  escape  them,  hurried  away  to  see  after  Madeline,  whom 
he  now  met  on  the  landing-place,  leaning  on  Ellinor's  arm,  and 
still  pale. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  which  he  for  one  moment  pressed 
passionately  to  his  lips,  but  dropped  the  next,  with  an  altered 
and  chilled  air.  And  hastily  observing  that  he  would  not  now 
detain  her  from  a  rest  which  she  must  so  much  require,  he 
turned  away  and  descended  the  stairs.  Some  of  the  servants 
were  grouped  around  the  place  of  enu^unter  ;  he  entered  the 
room,  and  again  started  at  the  sight  of  the  blood. 

"Bring  water,"  said  he  fiercely  :  "will  you  let  the  stagnant 
gore  ooze  and  rot  into  the  boards,  to  startle  the  eye  and  still 
the  heart  with  its  filthy  and  unutterable  stain  ?  Water,  I  say  ! 
water  !  " 

They  hurried  to  obey  him,  and  Lester  coming  into  the  room 
to  see  the  window  reclosed  by  the  help  of  boards,  etc.,  found 
the  student  bending  over  the  the  servants  as  they  performed 
their  reluctant  task,  and  rating  them  with  a  raised  and  harsh 
voice  for  the  hastiness  with  which  he  accused  chem  of  seeking 
to  slur  it  over. 


194  EUGENE     ARAM. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ARAM    ALONE    AMONG    THE    MOUNTAINS. — HIS    SOLILOQUY    AND 
PROJECT. — SCENE    BETWEEN    HIMSELF    AND    MADELINE. 

"  Luce  non  grata  fruor  ; 
Trepidante  semper  corde,  nan  mortis  metu 
Sed—*.  .  .  ." — SENECA;  Oc tavia,  Act  i. 

THE  two  men-servants  of  the  house  remained  up  the  rest  of 
the  night ;  but  it  was  not  till  the  morning  had  advanced  far 
beyond  the  usual  time  of  rising  in  the  fresh  shades  of  Grass- 
dale,  that  Madeline  and  Ellinor  became  visible;  even  Lester 
left  his  bed  an  hour  later  than  his  wont  ;  and'  knocking  at 
Aram's  door,  found  the  student  was  already  abroad,  while  it  was 
evident  that  his  bed  had  not  been  pressed  during  the  whole  of 
the  night.  Lester  descended  into  the  garden,  and  was  there 
met  by  Peter  Dealtry  and  a  detachment  of  the  band  ;  who,  as 
common  sense  and  Lester  had  predicted,  were  indeed,  at  a  very 
early  period  of  the  watch,  driven  to  their  respective  homes. 
They  were  now  seriously  concerned  for  their  unmanliness, 
which  they  passed  off  as  well  as  they  could  upon  their  convic- 
tion "  that  nobody  at  Grassdale  could  ever  really  be  robbed"; 
and  promised,  with  sincere  contrition,  that  they  would  be  most 
excellent,  guards  for  the  future.  Peter  was,  in  sooth,  singularly 
chop-fallen,  and  could  only  defend  himself  by  an  incoherent 
mutter ;  from  which  the  squire  turned  somewhat  impatiently 
when  he  heard,  louder  than  the  rest,  the  words  "seventy-seventh 
psalm,  seventeenth  verse,— 

"  The  clouds  that  were  both  thick  and  black. 
Did  rain  full  plenteously." 

Leaving  the  squire  to  the  edification  of  the  pious  host,  let  us 
follow  the  steps  of  Aram,  who  at  the  early  dawn  had  quitted 
his  sleepless  chamber,  and  though  the  clouds  at  that  time  still 
poured  down  in  a  dull  and  heavy  sleet,  wandered  away,  whither 
he  neither  knew  nor  heeded.  He  was  now  hurrying,  with 
unabated  speed,  though  with  no  purposed  bourne  or  object, 
over  the  chain  of  mountains  that  backed  the  green  and  lovely 
valleys  among  which  his  home  was  cast. 

"Yes!"  said  he,  at  last,  halting  abruptly,  with  a  desperate 
resolution  stamped  on  his  countenance,  "  yes  !  I  will  so  deter- 
mine. If,  after  this  interview,  I  feel  that  I  cannot  command 
and  bind  Houseman's  perpetual  secrecy,  I  will  surrender 

*  I  live  a  life  of  wretchedness :  my  heart  perpetually  trembling,   not   through  fear  o( 
death,  but— 


EUGENE     ARAM.  195 

Madeline  at  once.  She  has  loved  me  generously  and  trustingly. 
I  will  not  link  her  life  with  one  that  may  be  called  hence  in 
any  hour,,  and  to  so  dread  an  account.  Neither  shall  the  gray 
hairs  of  Lester  be  brought,  with  the  sorrow  of  my  shame,  to  a 
dishonored  and  untimely  grave.  And  after  the  outrage  of  last 
night,  the  daring  outrage,  how- can  I  calculate  on  the  safety  of 
a  day  ?  Though  Houseman  was  not  present,  though  I  can 
scarce  believe  he  knew  or  at  least  abetted  the  attack,  yet  they 
were  assuredly  of  his  gang  :  had  one  been  seized,  the  clue 
might  have  traced  to  his  detection  ;  were  he  detected,  what 
should  I  have  to  dread  ?  No,  Madeline  !  no  ;  not  while  this 
sword  hangs  over  me  will  I  subject  thee  to  share  the  horror  of 
my  fate ! " 

This  resolution,  which  was  certainly  generous,  and  yet  no 
more  than  honest,  Aram  had  no  sooner  arrived  at,  than  he 
dismissed,  at  once,  by  one  of  those  efforts  which  powerful 
minds  can  command,  all  the  weak  and  vacillating  thoughts 
that  might  interfere  with  the  sternness  of  his  determination. 
He  seemed  to  breathe  more  freely,  and  the  haggard  wanness 
of  his  brow  relaxed  at  least  from  the  workings  that,  but  the 
moment  before,  distorted  its  wonted  serenity  with  a  maniac 
wildness. 

He  now  pursued  his  desultory  way  with  a  calmer  step. 

"What  a  night !  "  said  he,  again  breaking  into  the  low  mur- 
mur in  which  he  was  accustomed  to  hold  commune  with  him- 
self. "Had  Houseman  been  one  of  the  ruffians  a  shot  might 
have  freed  me,  and  without  a  crime,  forever  ;  and  till  the  light 
flashed  on  their  brows,  I  thought  the  smaller  man  bore  his 
aspect.  Ha  !  out,  tempting  thought  !  out  on  thee  !  "  he  cried 
aloud,  and  stamping  with  his  foot ;  then  recalled  by  his  own 
vehemence,  he  cast  a  jealous  and  hurried  glance  round  him, 
though  at  that  moment  his  step  was  on  the  very  height  of  the 
mountains,  where  not  even  the  solitary  shepherd,  save  in  search 
of  some  more  daring  straggler  of  the  flock,  ever  brushed  the 
clew  from  the  cragged,  yet  fragrant  soil.  "  Yet,"  he  said,  in  a 
lower  voice,  and  again  sinking  into  the  sombre  depths  of  his 
revery,  "  it  is  a.  tempting,  a  wondrously  tempting  thought. 
And  it  struck  athwart  me  like  a  flash  of  lightning  when  this 
hand  was  at  his  throat — a  tighter  strain,  another  moment,  and 
Eugene  Aram  had  not  had  an  enemy,  a  witness  against  him  left 
in  the  world.  Ha !  are  the  dead  no  foes  then  ?  are  the  dead 
no  witnesses  ? "  Here  he  relapsed  into  utter  silence,  but  his 
gestures  continued  wild,  and  his  eyes  wandered  round,  with  a 
bloodshot  and  unquiet  glare.  "  Enough,"  at  length  he  said 


Ig6  EUGENE    ARAM. 

calmly,  and  with  the  manner  of  one  'who  has  rolled  a  stone 
from  his  heart';*  "Enough!  I  will  not  so  sully  myself, 
unless  all  other  hope  of  self-preservation  be  extinct.  And  why 
despond  ?  the  plan  I  have  thought  of  seems  well-laid,  wise, 
consummate  at  all  points.  Let  me  consider — forfeited  the 
moment  he  re-enters  England — 'not  given  till  he  has  left  it — • 
paid  periodically,  and  of  such  extent  as  to  supply  his  wants, 
preserve  him  from  crime,  and  forbid  the  possibility  of  extort- 
ing more  :  all  this  sounds  well ;  and  if  not  feasible  at  last,  why 
farewell  Madeline,  and  I  myself  leave  this  land  forever.  Come 
what  will  to  me — death  in  its  vilest  shape — let  not  the  stroke 
fall  on  that  breast.  And  if  it  be,"  he  continued,  his  face  light- 
ing up,  "if  it  be,  as  it  may  yet,  that  I  can  chain  this  hell-hound, 
why,  even  then,  the  instant  that  Madeline  is  mine  I  will  fly 
these  scenes  ;  I  will  seek  a  yet  obscurer  and  remoter  corner  of 
earth  :  I  will  choose  another  name.  Fool !  why  did  I  not  so 
before  ?  But  matters  it  ?  What  is  writ  is  writ.  Who  can 
struggle  with  the  invisible  and  giant  hand  that  launched  the 
world  itself  into  motion,  and  at  whose  pre-decree  we  hold  the 
dark  boons  of  life  and  death  ?" 

It  was  not  till  evening  that  Aram,  utterly  worn  out  and 
exhausted,  found  himself  in  the  neighborhood  of  Lester's 
house.  The  sun  had  only  broken  forth  at  its  setting,  and  it 
now  glittered,  from  its  western  pyre,  over  the  dripping  hedges, 
and  spread  a  brief  but  magic  glow  along  the  rich  landscape 
around ;  the  changing  woods  clad  in  the  thousand  dyes  of 
autumn  ;  the  scattered  and  peaceful  cottages,  with  their  long 
wreaths  of  smoke  curling  upward,  and  the  gray  and  venerable 
walls  of  the  manor-house,  with  the  church  hard  by,  and  the 
delicate  spire,  which,  mixing  itself  with  heaven,  is  at  once  the 
most  touching  and  solemn  emblem  of  the  faith  to  which  it  is 
devoted.  It  was  a  Sabbath  eve ;  and  from  the  spot  on  which 
Aram  stood,  he  might  discern  many  a  rustic  train  trooping 
slowly  up  the  green  village  lane  toward  the  church  ;  and  the 
deep  bell  which  summoned  to  the  last  service  of  the  day  now 
swung  its  voice  far  over  the  sunlit  and  tranquil  scene. 

But  it  was  not  the  setting  sun,  nor  the  autumnal  landscape, 
nor  the  voice  of  the  holy  bell,  that  now  arrested  the  step  of 
Aram.  At  a  little  distance  before  him,  leaning  over  a  gate, 
and  seemingly  waiting  till  the  ceasing  of  the  bell  should  an- 
nounce the  time  to  enter  the  sacred  mansion,  he  beheld  the 
figure  of  Madeline  Lester.  Her  head,  at  the  moment,  was 
averted  from  him,  as  if  she  were  looking  after  Ellinor  and  her 

*  Eastern  saying. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  Ip7 

uncle,  who  were  in  the  churchyard  among  a  little  group  of 
their  homely  neighbors  ;  and  he  was  half  in  doubt  whether  to 
shun  her  presence,  when  she  suddenly  turned  round,  and,  seeing 
him,  uttered  an  exclamation  of  joy.  It  was  now  too  late  for 
avoidance  ;  and  calling  to  his  aid  that  mastery  over  his  fea- 
tures which,  in  ordinary  times,  few  more  eminently  possessed, 
he  approached  his  beautiful  mistress  with  a  smile  as  serene,  if 
not  as  glowing,  as  her  own.  But  she  had  already  opened  the 
gate,  and,  bounding  forward,  met  him  half-way. 

"Ah,  truant,  truant,"  said  she;  "the  whole  day  absent, 
without  inquiry  or  farewell !  After  this,  when  shall  I  believe 
that  thou  really  lovest  me?" 

"  But,"  continued  Madeline,  gazing  on  his  countenance, 
which  bore  witness,  in  its  present  languor,  to  the  fierce  emo- 
tions which  had  lately  raged  within,  "  but  heavens  !  dearest, 
how  pale  you  look  ;  you  are  fatigued  ;  give  me  your  hand, 
Eugene, — it  is  parched  and  dry.  Come  into  the  house  ;  you 
must  need  rest  and  refreshment." 

"  I  am  better  here,  my  Madeline, — the  air  and  the  sun  re- 
vive me  :  let  us  rest  by  the  stile  yonder.  But  you  were  going 
to  church,  and  the  bell  has  ceased." 

"I  could  attend,  I  fear,  little  to  the  prayers  now,"  said 
Madeline,  "  unless  you  feel  well  enough,  and  will  come  to 
church  with  me." 

"  To  church  !  "  said  Aram,  with  a  half  shudder.  "  No  ;  my 
thoughts  are  in  no  mood  for  prayer." 

"  Then  you  shall  give  your  thoughts  to  me,  and  I,  in  return, 
will  pray  for  you  before  I  rest." 

And  so  saying,  Madeline,  with  her  usual  innocent  frankness 
of  manner,  wound  her  arm  in  his,  and  they  walked  onward 
towards  the  stile  Aram  had  pointed  out.  It  was  a  little  rustic 
stile,  with  chestnut-trees  hanging  over  it  on  either  side.  It 
stands  to  this  day,  and  I  have  pleased  myself  with  finding 
Walter  Lester's  initials,  and  Madeline's  also,  with  the  date  of 
the  year,  carved  in  half-worn  letters  on  the  wood,  probably  by 
the  hand  of  the  former. 

They  now  rested  ac  this  spot.  All  around  them  was  still 
and  solitary  ;  the  group?  of  peasants  had  entered  the  church, 
and  nothing  of  life,  save  the  cattle  grazing  in  the  distant  fields, 
or  the  thrush  starting  from  the  wet  bushes,  was  visible.  The 
winds  were  lulled  to  rest,  and,  though  somewhat  of  the  chill  of 
autumn  floated  on  the  air,  it  only  bore  a  balm  to  the  harassed 
brow  and  fevered  veins  of  the  student  ;  and  Madeline ! — she 
felt  nothing  but  his  presence.  It  was  exactly  what  we  picture 


198  EUGENE     ARAM. 

to  ourselves  of  a  Sabbath  eve,  unutterably  serene  and  soft,  and 
borrowing  from  the  very  melancholy  of  the  declining  year  an 
impressive  yet  a  mild  solemnity. 

There  are  seasons,  often  in  the  most  dark  or  turbulent  peri- 
ods of  our  life,  when  (why,  we  know  not)  we  are  suddenly 
called  from  ourselves,  by  the  remembrances  of  early  childhood  : 
something  touches  the  electric  chain,  and,  lo  !  a  host  of  shad- 
owy and  sweet  recollections  steal  upon  us.  The  wheel  rests, 
the  oar  i?  suspended,  we  are  snatched  from  the  labor  and  trav- 
ail of  the  present  life  ;  we  are  born  again,  and  live  anew. 
As  the  secret  page  in  which  the  characters  once  written  seem 
forever  effaced,  but  which,  if  breathed  upon,  gives  them  again 
into  view  :  so  the  memory  can  revive  the  images  invisible  for 
years  ;  but  while  we  gaze,  the  breath  recedes  from  the  surface, 
and  all  one  moment  so  vivid,  with  the  next  moment  has  be- 
come once  more  a  blank  ! 

"It  is  singular,"  said  Aram,  "but  often  as  I  have  paused  at 
this  spot,  and  gazed  upon  this  landscape,  a  likeness  to  the 
scenes  of  my  childish  life,  which  it  novy  seems  to  me  to  pre- 
sent, never  occurred  to  me  before.  Yes,  yonder,  in  that  cot- 
tage, with  the  sycamores  in  front,  and  the  orchard  extending 
behind,  till  its  boundary,  as  it  now  stands,  seems  lost  among 
the  woodland,  I  could  fancy  that  I  looked  upon  my  father's 
home.  The  clump  of  trees  that  lies  yonder  to  the  right  could 
cheat  me  readily  to  the  belief  that  I  saw  the  little  grove,  in 
which,  enamoured  with  the  first  passion  of  study,  I  was  wont 
to  pore  over  the  thrice-read  book  through  the  long  summer 
days  ;  a  boy — a  thoughtful  boy  ;  yet,  oh,  how  happy  !  What 
worlds  appeared  then  to  me  to  open  in  every  page  !  how  ex- 
haustless  I  thought  the  treasures  and  the  hopes  of  life  !  and 
beautiful  on  the  mountain  tops  seemed  to  me  the  steps  of 
Knowledge  !  I  did  not  dream  of  all  that  the  musing  and  lone- 
ly passion  that  I  nursed  was  to  entail  upon  me.  There,  in  the 
clefts  of  the  valley,  on  the  ridges  of  the  hills,  or  by  the  fra- 
grant course  of  the  stream,  I  began  already  to  win  its  history 
from  the  herb  or  flower  ;  I  saw  nothing,  that  I  did  not  long  to 
unravel  its  secrets  ;  all  that  the  earth  nourished  ministered  to 
one  desire  : — and  what  of  low  or  sordid  did  there  mingle  with 
that  desire?  The  petty  avarice,  the  mean  ambition,  the  de- 
basing love,  even  the  heat,  the  anger,  the  fickleness,  the  caprice 
of  other  men,  did  they  allure  or  bow  down  my  nature  from  its 
steep  and  solitary  eyrie  ?  I  lived  but  to  feed  my  mind  ;  wis- 
dom was  my  thirst,  my  dream,  my  aliment,  my  sole  fount  and 
sustenance  of  life.  And  have  I  not  sown  the  wind  and  reaped 


EUGENE     ARAM.  199 

the  whirlwind  ?  The  glory  of  my  youth  is  gone,  my  veins  are 
chilled,  my  frame  is  bowed,  my  heat  is  gnawed  with  cares,  my 
nerves  are  unstrung  as  a  loosened  bow  :  and  what,  after  all,  is 
my  gain  ?  Oh,  God  !  what  is  my  gain  ?" 

."  Eugene,  dear,  dear  Eugene  !  "  murmured  Madeline  sooth- 
ingly, and  wrestling  with  her  tears,  "  is  not  your  gain  great?  is 
it  not  triumph  that  you  stand,  while  yet  young,  almost  alone  in 
the  world,  for  success  in  all  that  you  have  attempted?" 

"  And  what,"  exclaimed  Aram,  breaking  in  upon  her,  "  what 
is  this  world  which  we  ransack  but  a  stupendous  charnel-house? 
Everything  that  we  deem  most  lovely,  ask  its  origin  ?  Decay  ! 
When  we  rifle  nature,  and  collect  wisdom,  are  we  not  like  the 
hags  of  old,  culling  simples  from  the  rank  grave,  and  extracting 
sorceries  from  the  rotting  bones  of  the  dead  ?  Everything 
around  us  is  fathered  by  corruption,  battened  by  corruption, 
and  into  corruption  returns  at  last.  Corruption  is  at  once  the 
womb  and  grave  of  Nature,  and  the  very  beauty  on  which  we 
gaze, — the  cloud,  and  the  tree,  and  the  swarming  waters, — all 
are  one  vast  panorama  of  death  !  But  it  did  not  always  seem 
to  me  thus ;  and  even  now  I  speak  with  a  heated  pulse  and  a 
dizzy  brain.  Come,  Madeline,  let  us  change  the  theme." 

And  dismissing  at  once  from  his  language,  and  perhaps,  as 
he  proceeded,  also  from  his  mind,  all  of  its  former  gloom,  ex- 
cept such  as  might  shade,  but  not  embitter,  the  natural  tender- 
ness of  remembrance,  Aram  now  related,  with  that  vividness 
of  diction  which,  though  we  feel  we  can  very  inadequately 
convey  its  effect,  characterized  his  conversation,  and  gave 
something  of  poetic  interest  to  all  he  uttered,  those  reminis- 
cences which  belong  to  childhood,  and  which  all  of  us  take  de- 
light to  hear  from  the  lips  of  one  we  love. 

It  was  while  on  this  theme  that  the  lights  which  the  deepen- 
ing twilight  had  now  made  necessary  became  visible  in  the 
church,  streaming  afar  through  its  large  oriel  window,  and 
brightening  the  dark^rs  that  overshadowed  the  graves  around  : 
and  just  at  that  moment  the  organ  (a  gift  from  a  rich  rector, 
and  the  boast  of  the  neighboring  country),  stole  upon  the  si- 
lence with  its  swelling  and  solemn  note.  There  was  something 
in  the  strain  of  this  sudden  music  that  was  so  kindred  with  the 
holy  repose  of  the  scene, — chimed  so  exactly  to  the  chord  now 
vibrating  in  Aram's  mind,  that  it  struck  upon  him  at  once  with 
an  irresistible  power.  He  paused  abruptly  "as  if  an  angel 
spoke  ! "  That  sound,  so  peculiarly  adapted  to  express  sacred 
and  unearthly  emotion,  none  who  have  ever  mourned  or  sinned 
can  hear,  at  an  unlooked-for  moment,  without  a  certain  senti- 


200  EUGENE     ARAM. 

ment  that  either  subdues,  or  elevates,  or  awes.  But  he, — he 
was  a  boy  once  more  ! — he  was  again  in  the  village  church  of 
his  native  place :  his  father,  with  his  silver  hair,  stood  again 
beside  him  ;  there  was  his  mother,  pointing  to  him  the  holy 
verse ;  there  the  half-arch,  half-reverent  face  of  his  little  sister 
(she  died  young  !), — there  the  upward  eye  and  hushed  counte- 
nance ofjthe  preacher  who  had  first  raised  his  mind  to  knowl- 
edge, and  supplied  its  food, — all,  all  lived,  moved,  breathed, 
again  before  him,  all,  as  when  he  was  young  and  guiltless,  and 
at  peace  ;  hope  and  the  future  one  word  ! 

He  bowed  his  head  lower  and  lower ;  the  hardness  and  hy- 
pocrisies of  pride,  the  sense  of  danger  and  of  horror,  that,  in 
agitating,  still  supported,  the  mind  of  this  resolute  and  schem- 
ing man,  at  once  forsook  him.  Madeline  felt  his  tears  drop 
fast  and  burning  on  her  hand,  and  the  next  moment,  overcome 
by  the  relief  it  afforded  to  a  heart  preyed  upon  by  fiery  and 
dread  secrets,  which  it  could  not  reveal,  and  a  frame  exhausted 
by  the  long  and  extreme  tension  of  all  its  powers,  he  laid  his 
head  upon  that  faithful  bosom,  and  wept  aloud. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ARAM'S  SECRET  EXPEDITION. — A  SCENE  WORTHY  THE  ACTORS. — 
ARAM'S  ADDRESS  AND  POWERS  OF  PERSUASION  OR  HYPOCRI- 
SY.— THEIR  RESULT. — A  FEARFUL  NIGHT. — ARAM'S  SOLI- 
TARY RIDE  HOMEWARD. — WHOM  HE  MEETS  BY  THE  WAY, 
AND  WHAT  HE  SEES. 

"  Macbeth.  Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 
Nature  seems  dead. 

*  *  *  * 
Donalbain.  Our  separated  fortune 

Shall  keep  us  both  the  safer.       : 

*  *  *  * 

Old  Man.  Hours  dreadful,  and  things  strange. " — Macbeth. 

"  AND  you  must  really  go  to to  pay  your  importunate 

creditor  this  very  evening  ?  Sunday  is  a  bad  day  for  such 
matters:  but  as  you  pay  him  by  an  order,  it  does  not  much 
signify  ;  and  I  can  well  understand  your  impatience  to  feel  re- 
lieved from  the  debt.  But  it  is  already  late  ;  and  if  it  must 
be  so,  you  had  better  start." 

"  True,"  said  Aram,  to  the  above  remark  of  Lester's,  as  the 


EUGENE     ARAM.  2Oi 

two  stood  together  without  the  door  ;  "  but  do  you  feel  quite 
secure  and  guarded  against  any  renewed  attack  ?  " 

"  Why,  unless  they  bring  a  regiment,  yes  !  I  have  put  a 
body  of  our  patrol  on  a  service  where  they  can  scarce  be  inef- 
ficient, viz.,  I  have  stationed  them  in  the  house  instead  of  with- 
out ;  and  I  shall  myself  bear  them  company  through  the  great- 
er part  of  the  night  :  to-morrow  I  shall  remove  all  that  I  pos- 
sess of  value  to (the  county  town),  including  those  unlucky 

guineas,  which  you  will  not  ease  me  of." 

"  The  order  you  have  kindly  given  me  will  amply  satisfy  my 
purpose,"  answered  Aram.  "  And  so  there  has  been  no  clue 
to  these  robbers  discovered  throughout  the  day  ?  " 

"  None  :  to-morrow,  the  magistrates  are  to  meet  at 

and  concert  measures :  it  is  absolutely  impossible  but  that  we 
should  detect  the  villains  in  a  few  days,  viz.,  if  they  remain  in 
these  parts.  I  hope  to  heaven  you  will  not  meet  them  this 
evening." 

"  I  shall  go  well  armed,"  answered  Aram,  "and  the  horse  you 
lend  me  is  fleet  and  strong.  And  now  farewell  for  the  present. 
I  shall  probably  not  return  to  Grassdale  this  night,  or  if  I  do, 
it  will  be  at  so  late  an  hour,  that  I  shall  seek  my  own  domicile 
without  disturbing  you." 

"  No,  no  ;  you  had  better  remain  in  the  town,  and  not  return 
till  morning,"  said  the  squire.  "  And  now  let  us  come  to  the 
stables." 

To  obviate  all  chance  of  suspicion  as  to  the  real  place  of  his 
destination,  Aram  deliberately  rode  to  the  town  he  had  men- 
tioned, as  the  one  in  which  his  pretended  creditor  expected 
him.  He  put  up  at  an  inn,  walked  forth  as  if  to  visit  some  one 
in  the  town,  returned,  remounted,  and  by  a  circuitous  route 
came  into  the  neighborhood  of  the  place  in  which  he  was  to 
meet  Houseman  :  then  turning  into  a  long  and  dense  chain  of 
wood,  he  fastened  his  horse  to  a  tree,  and  looking  to  the  prim- 
ing of  his  pistols,  which  he  carried  under  his  riding-cloak,  pro- 
ceeded to  the  spot  on  foot. 

The  night  was  still,  and  not  wholly  dark  ;  for  the  clouds  lay 
scattered  though  dense,  and  suffered  many  stars  to  gleam 
through  the  heavy  air  ;  the  moon  herself  was  abroad,  but  on 
her  decline,  and  looked  forth  with  a  wan  and  saddened  aspect 
as  she  travelled  from  cloud  to  cloud.  It  has  been  the  neces- 
sary course  of  our  narrative,  to  portray  Aram  more  often  in  his 
weaker  moments  than,  to  give  an  exact  notion  of  his  character, 
we  could  have  altogether  wished  ;  but  whenever  he  stood  in 
the  actual  presence  of  danger,  his  whole  soul  was  in  arms  to 


202  EUGENE     AkAM. 

cope  with  it  worthily  :  courage,  sagacity,  even  cunning,  all 
awakened  to  the  encounter  ;  and  the  mind  which  his  life  had 
so  austerely  cultivated  repaid  him  in  the  urgent  season  with  its 
acute  address  and  unswerving  hardihood.  The  Devil's  Crag, 
as  it  was  popularly  called,  was  a  spot  consecrated  by  many  a 
wild  tradition,  which  would  not,  perhaps,  be  wholly  out  of 
character  with  the  dark  thread  of  this  tale,  did  the  rapidity  of 
our  narrative  allow  us  to  relate  them. 

The  same  stream  which  lent  so  soft  an  attraction  to  the  val- 
leys of  Grassdale  here  assumed  a  different  character  ;  broad, 
black,  and  rushing,  it  whirled  along  a  course  overhung  by 
shagged  and  abrupt  banks.  On  the  opposite  side  to  that  by 
which  Aram  now  pursued  his  path,  an  almost  perpendicular 
mountain  was  covered  with  gigantic  pine  and  fir,  that  might 
have  reminded  a  German  wanderer  of  the  darkest  recesses  of 
the  Hartz  ;  and  seemed,  indeed,  no  unworthy  haunt  for  the 
weird  huntsman  or  the  forest  fiend.  Over  this  wood  the  moon 
now  shimmered,  with  the  pale  and  feeble  light  we  have  already 
described ;  and  only  threw  into  a  more  sombre  shade  the 
vrjotionless  and  gloomy  foliage.  Of  all  the  offspring  of  the 
.forest,  the  fir  bears,  perhaps,  the  most  saddening  and  desolate 
aspect.  Its  long  branches,  without  absolute  leaf  or  blossom  ; 
its  dead,  dark,  eternal  hue,  which  the  winter  seems  to  wither 
not,  nor  the  spring  to  revive,  have  I  know  not  what  of  a  mystic 
and  unnatural  life.  Around  all  woodland,  there  is  that  horror 
umbrarum*  which  becomes  more  solemn  and  awful  amidst  the 
silence  and  depth  of  night :  but  this  is  yet  more  especially  the 
characteristic  of  that  sullen  evergreen.  Perhaps,  too,  this  ef- 
fect is  increased  by  the  sterile  and  dreary  soil  on  which,  when 
in  groves,  it  is  generally  found  ;  and  its  very  hardiness,  the  very 
pertinacity  with  which  it  draws  its  strange,  unfluctuating  life 
from  the  sternest  wastes  and  most  reluctant  strata,  enhance, 
unconsciously,  the  unwelcome  effect  it  is  calculated  to  create 
upon  the  mind.  At  this  place,  too,  the  waters  that  dashed  be- 
neath gave  yet  additional  wildness  to  the  rank  verdure  of  the 
wood,  and  contributed,  by  their  rushing  darkness  partially 
broken  by  the  stars,  and  the  hoarse  roar  of  their  chafed  course, 
a  yet  more  grim  and  savage  sublimity  to  the  scene. 

Winding  a  narrow  path  (for  the  whole  country  was  as  famil- 
iar as  a  garden  to  his  footstep),  that  led  through  the  tall  wet 
herbage,  almost  along  the  perilous  brink  of  the  stream,  Aram 
was  now  aware,  by  the  increased  and  deafening  sound  of  the 
waters,  that  the  appointed  spot  was  nearly  gained  ;  and  presently 

*  Shadowy  horror. 


EUGENE    ARAM.  203 

the  glimmering  and  imperfect  light  of  the  skies  revealed  the 
dim  shape  of  a  gigantic  rock,  that  rose  abruptly  from  the  middle 
of  the  stream  ;  and  which,  rude,  barren,  vast,  as  it  really  was, 
seemed  now,  by  the  uncertainty  of  night,  like  some  monstrous 
and  deformed  creature  of  the  waters  suddenly  emerging  from 
their  vexed  and  dreary  depths.  This  was  the  far-famed  Crag, 
which  had  borrowed  from  tradition  its  evil  and  ominous  name. 
And  now,  the  stream,  bending  round  with  a  broad  and  sudden 
swoop,  showed  at  a  little  distance,  ghostly  and  indistinct  through 
the  darkness,  the  mighty  Waterfall,  whose  roar  had  been  his 
guide.  Only  in  one  streak  a-dovvn  the  giant  cataract  the  stars 
were  reflected  ;  and  this  long  train  of  broken  light  glittered 
preternaturally  forth  through  the  rugged  crags  and  sombre 
verdure,  that  wrapped  either  side  of  the  waterfall  in  utter  and 
rayless  gloom. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  forlorn  and  terrific  grandeur  of 
the  spot  ;  the  roar  of  the  waters  supplied  to  the  ear  what  the 
night  forbade  to  the  eye.  Incessant  and  eternal  they  thundered 
down  into  the  gulf;  and  then  shooting  over  that  fearful  basin, 
and  forming  another,  but  a  mimic  fall,  dashed  on,  till  they  were 
opposed  by  the  sullen  and  abrupt  crag  below  ;  and  besieging 
its  base  with  a  renewed  roar,  sent  their  foamy  and  angry  spray 
half-way  up  the  hoar  ascent. 

At  this  stern  and  dreary  spot,  well  suited  for  such  conferences 
as  Aram  and  Houseman  alone  could  hold  ;  and  which,  what- 
ever was  the  original  secret  that  linked  the  two  men  thus 
strangely,  seemed  of  necessity  to  partake  of  a  desperate  and 
lawless  character,  with  danger  for  its  main  topic,  and  death 
itself  for  its  coloring,  Aram  now  paused,  and  with  an  eye 
accustomed  to  the  darkness,  looked  around  for  his  com- 
panion. 

He  did  not  wait  long :  from  the  profound  shadow  that  girded 
the  space  immediately  around  the  fall,  Houseman  emerged  and 
joined  the  student.  The  stunning  noise  of  the  cataract  in  the 
place  where  they  met  forbade  any  attempt  to  converse  ;  and 
they  walked  on  by  the  course  of  the  stream,  to  gain  a  spot  less 
in  reach  of  the  deafening  shout  of  the  mountain  giant  as  he 
rushed  with  his  banded  waters  upon  the  valley  like  a  foe. 

It  was  noticeable  that,  as  they  proceeded,  Aram  walked  on 
with  an  unsuspicious  and  careless  demeanor;  but  Houseman, 
pointing  out  the  way  with  his  hand,  not  leading  it,  kept  a  little 
behind  Aram,  and  watched  his  motions  with  a  vigilant  and 
wary  eye.  The  student,  who  had  diverged  from  the  path  at 
Houseman's  direction,  now  paused  at  a  place  where  the  matted 


264  EUGENE 

bushes  seemed  to  forbid  any  farther  progress  ;  and  said,  foi 
the  first  time  breaking  the  silence,  "  We  cannot  proceed  ;  shall 
this  be  the  place  of  our  conference?  " 

"No,"  said  Houseman,  "we  had  better  pierce  the  bushes. 
I  know  the  way,  but  will  not  lead  it." 

"  And  wherefore?  " 

"  The  mark  of  your  gripe  is  still  on  my  throat,"  replied 
Houseman  significantly  :  "  you  know  as  well  as  I,  that  it  is 
not  always  safe  to  have  a  friend  lagging  behind." 

"  Let  us  rest  here,  then,"  said  Aram  calmly,  the  darkness 
veiling  any  alteration  of  his  countenance,  which  his  comrade's 
suspicion  might  have  created. 

"  Yet  it  were  much  better,"  said  Houseman  doubtingly, 
"  could  we  gain  the  cave  below." 

"The  cave!"  said  Aram,  starting,  as  if  the  word  had  a 
sound  of  fear. 

"  Ay,  ay  :  but  not  St.  Robert's,"  said  Houseman  ;  and  the 
grin  of  his  teeth  was  visible  through  the  dulness  of  the  shade. 
"  But  come,  give  me  your  hand,  and  I  will  venture  to  conduct 
you  through  the  thicket : — that  is  your  left  hand,"  observed 
Houseman,  with  a  sharp  and  angry  suspicion  in  his  tone  ; 
"give  me  the  right." 

"As  you  will,"  said  Aram,  in  a  subdued,  yet  meaning  voice, 
that  seemed  to  come  from  his  heart ;  and  thrilled,  for  an  in- 
stant, to  the  bones  of  him  who  heard  it ;  "as  you  will  ;  but  for 
fourteen  years  I  have  not  given  this  right  hand,  in  pledge  of 
fellowship,  to  living  man  ;  you  alone  deserve  the  courtesy — 
there  !  " 

Houseman  hesitated  before  he  took  the  hand  now  extended 
to  him. 

"  Pshaw  !  "  said  he,  as  if  indignant  at  himself  ;  "  what  scru- 
ples at  a  shadow  !  Come"  (grasping  the  hand)  "  that's  well — 
so,  so  :  now  we  are  in  the  thicket — tread  firm — this  way — 
hold,"  continued  Houseman  under  his  breath,  as  suspicion 
anew  seemed  to  cross  him  ;  "  hold !  we  can  see  each  other's 
face  not  even  dimly  now  :  but  in  this  hand,  my  right  is  free,  I 
have  a  knife  that  has  done  good  service  ere  this  ;  and  if  I  do 
but  suspect  that  you  are  about  to  play  me  false,  I  bury  it  in 
your  hearc.  Do  you  heed  me  ?  " 

"  Fool  !  "  said  Aram  scornfully,  "  I  should  dread  you  dead 
yet  more  than  living." 

Houseman  made  no  answer ;  but  continued  to  grope  on 
through  the  path  in  the  thicket,  which  he  evidently  knew  well  ; 
though  even  in  daylight,  so  thick  were  the  trees,  and  so  artfully 


EtfGENE     ARAM.  2O$ 

had  their  boughs  been  left  to  cover  the  track,  no  path  could 
have  been  discovered  by  one  unacquainted  with  the  clue. 

They  had  now  walked  on  for  some  minutes,  and  of  late  their 
steps  had  been  threading  a  rugged  and  somewhat  precipitous 
descent  :  all  this  while,  the  pulse  of  the  hand  Houseman  held 
beat  with  as  steadfast  and  calm  a  throb,  as  in  the  most  quiet 
mood  of  learned  meditation  ;  although  Aram  could  not  but  be 
conscious  that  a  mere  accident,  a  slip  of  the  foot,  an  entangle- 
ment in  the  briars,  might  awaken  the  irritable  fears  of  his  ruf- 
fian comrade,  and  bring  the  knife  to  his  breast.  But  this  was 
not  that  form  of  death  that  could  shake  the  nerves  of  Aram  ; 
nor,  though  arming  his  whole  soul  to  ward  off  one  danger,  was 
he  well  sensible  of  another,  that  might  have  seemed  equally 
near  and  probable,  to  a  less  collected  and  energetic  nature. 
Houseman  now  halted,  again  put  aside  the  boughs,  proceeded 
a  few  steps,  and  by  a  certain  dampness  and  oppression  in  the 
air,  Aram  rightly  conjectured  himself  in  the  cavern  Houseman 
had  spoken  of. 

"  We  are  landed  now,"  said  Houseman  :  "  but  wait,  I  will 
strike  a  light.  I  do  not  love  darkness,  even  with  another  sort 
of  companion  than  the  one  I  have  now  the  honor  to  entertain  ! " 

In  a  few  moments  a  light  was  produced,  and  placed  aloft  on 
a  crag  in  the  cavern  ;  but  the  ray  it  gave  was  feeble  and  dull, 
and  left  all,  beyond  the  immediate  spot  in  which  they  stood,  in 
a  darkness  little  less  Cimmerian  than  before. 

"  'Fore  Gad,  it  is  cold,"  said  Houseman,  shivering ;  "  but  I 
have  taken  care,  you  see,  to  provide  for  a  friend's  comfort." 
So  saying,  he  approached  a  bundle  of  dry  sticks  and  leaves, 
piled  at  one  corner  of  the  cave,  applied  the  light  to  the  fuel, 
and  presently  the  fire  rose  crackling,  breaking  into  a  thousand 
sparks,  and  freeing  itself  gradually  from  the  clouds  of  smoke  in 
which  it  was  enveloped.  It  now  mounted  into  a  ruddy  and 
cheering  flame,  and  the  warm  glow  played  picturesquely  upon 
the  gray  sides  of  the  cavern,  which  was  of  a  rugged  shape,  and 
small  dimensions,  and  cast  its  reddening  light  over  the  forms 
of  the  two  men. 

Houseman  stood  close  to  the  flame,  spreading  his  hands  over 
it,  and  a  sort  of  grim  complacency  stealing  along  features  sin- 
gularly ill  favored,  and  sinister  in  their  expression,  as  he  felt 
the  animal  luxury  of  the  warmth. 

Across  his  middle  was  a  broad  leathern  belt,  containing  a 
brace  of  large  horse-pistols,  and  the  knife,  or  rather  dagger, 
with  which  he  had  menaced  Aram — an  instrument  sharpened 
on  both  sides,  and  nearly  a  foot  in  length.  Altogether,  wha,{ 


£06  EUGENE     ARAM. 

with  his  muscular  breadth  of  figure,  his  hard  and  rugged 
features,  his  weapons,  and  a  certain  reckless,  bravo  air  which 
indescribably  marked  his  attitude  and  bearing,  it  was  not  well 
possible  to  imagine  a  fitter  habitant  for  that  grim  cave,  or  one 
from  whom  men  of  peace,  like  Eugene  Aram,  might  have 
seemed  to  derive  more  reasonable  cause  of  alarm. 

The  scholar  stood  at  a  liltle  distance,  waiting  till  his  com- 
panion was  entirely  prepared  for  the  conference,  and  his  pale 
and  lofty  features  hushed  in  their  usual  deep,  but  at  such  a 
moment  almost  preternatural,  repose.  He  stood  leaning  with 
folded  arms  against  the  rude  wall  ;  the  light  reflected  upon  his 
dark  garments,  with  the  graceful  liding-cloak  of  the  day  half- 
falling  from  his  shoulder,  and  revealing  also  the  pistols  in  his 
belt,  and  the  sword  which,  though  commonly  worn  at  that  time 
by  all  pretending  to  superiority  above  the  lower  and  trading 
orders,  Aram  usually  waived  as  a  distinction,  but  now  carried 
as  a  defence.  And  nothing  could  be  more  striking  than  the 
contrast  between  the  ruffian  form  of  his  companion  and  the 
delicate  and  chiselled  beauty  of  the  student's  features,  with 
their  air  of  mournful  intelligence  and  serene  command,  and  the 
slender  though  nervous  symmetry  of  his  frame. 

"  Houseman,"  said  Aram,  now  advancing,  as  his  comrade 
turned  his  face  from  the  flame  toward  him  ;  "  before  we  enter 
6n  the  main  subject  of  our  proposed  commune,  tell  me,  were 
you  engaged  in  the  attempt  last  night  upon  Lester's  house  ?  " 

"  By  the  fiend,  no  !  "  answered  Houseman  ;  "nor  did  I  learn 
it  till  this  morning  :  it  was  unpremeditated  till  within  a  few 
hours  of  the  time,  by  the  two  fools  who  alone  planned  it.  The 
fact  is,  that  I  myself  and  the  greater  part  of  our  little  band, 
were  engaged  some  miles  off,  in  the  western  part  of  the  county. 
Two — our  general  spies — had  been,  of  their  own  accord,  into 
your  neighborhood,  to  reconnoitre.  They  marked  Lester's 
house  during  the  day,  and  gathered  from  unsuspected  inquiry 
in  the  village,  for  they  were  dressed  as  mere  country  clowns, 
several  particulars  which  induced  them  to  think  the  house  con- 
tained what  might  repay  the  trouble  of  breaking  into  it.  And 
walking  along  the  fields  they  overheard  the  good  master  of  the 
house  tell  on.e  of  his  neighbors  of  a  large  sum  at  home  ;  nay, 
even  describe  the  place  where  it  was  kept  :  that  determined 
them  ;  they  feared  that  the  sum  might  be  removed  the  next 
day ;  they  had  noted  the  house  sufficiently  to  profit  by  the 
description  given  :  they  determined,  then,  of  themselves,  for  it 
was  too  late  to  reckon  on  our  assistance,  to  break  into  the  room 
in  which  the  money  was  kept — though  from  the  aroused  vigil- 


EUGENE     ARAM.  20? 

ance  of  the  frightened  hamlet  and  the  force  within  the  house, 
they  resolved  to  attempt  no  further  booty.  They  reckoned  on 
the  violence  of  the  storm,  and  the  darkness  of  the  night,  to 
prevent  their  being  heard  or  seen  :  they  were  mistaken  ;  the 
house  was  alarmed,  they  were  no  sooner  in  the  luckless  room, 
than — " 

"  Well,  I  know  the  rest.  Was  the  one  wounded  dangerously 
hurt  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  will  recover— he  will  recover  ;  our  men  are  no 
chickens.  But  I  own  I  thought  it  natural  that  you  might  sus- 
pect me  of  sharing  in  the  attack  ;  and  though,  as  I  have  said 
before,  I  do  not  love  you,  I  have  no  wish  to  embroil  matters  so 
far  as  an  outrage  on  the  house  of  your  father-in-law  might  be 
reasonably  expected  to  do  ;  at  all  events,  while  the  gate  to  an 
amicable  compromise  between  us  is  still  open." 

"I  am  satisfied  on  this  head,"  said  Aram,  "and  I  can  now 
treat  with  you  in  a  spirit  of  less  distrustful  precaution  than  before. 
I  tell  you,  Houseman,  that  the  terms  are  no  longer  at  your  con- 
trol ;  you  must  leave  this  part  of  the  country,  and  that  forthwith, 
or  you  inevitably  perish.  The  whole  population  is  alarmed,  and 
the  most  vigilant  of  the  London  police  have  been  already  sent 
for.  Life  is  sweet  to  you,  as  to  us  all,  and  I  cannot  imagine 
you  so  mad  as  to  incur,  not  the  risk,  but  the  certainty,  of  los- 
ing it.  You  can  no  longer,  therefore,  hold  the  threat  of  your 
presence  over  my  head.  Be^des,  were  you  able  to  do  so,  I  at 
least  have  the  power,  which  you  seem  to  have  forgotten,  of 
freeing  myself  from  it.  Am  I  chained  to  yonder  valleys  ? 
Have  I  not  the  facility  of  quitting  them  at  any  moment  I  will  ? 
Of  seeking  a  hiding-place  which  might  baffle,  not  only  your 
vigilance  to  discover  me,  but  that  of  the  law?  True,  my  ap- 
proaching marriage  puts  some  clog  upon  my  wing;  but  you 
know  that  I,  of  all  men,  am  not  likely  to  be  the  slave  of 
passion.  And  what  ties  are  strong  enough  to  arrest  the  steps 
of  him  who  flies  from  a  fearful  death  ?  Am  I  using  sophistry 
here,  Houseman  ?  Have  I  not  reason  on  my  side  ?  " 

"What  you  say  is  true  enough,"  said  Houseman  reluctantly  ; 
"I  do  not  gainsay  it.  But  I  know  you  have  not  sought  me,  in 
this  spot,  and  at  this  hour,  for  the  purpose  of  denying  my 
claims  ;  the  desire  of  compromise  alone  can  have  brought  you 
hither." 

"  You  speak  well,"  said  Aram,  preserving  the  admirable 
coolness  of  his  manner  ;  and  continuing  the  deep  and  sagacious 
hypocrisy  by  which  he  sought  to  baffle  the  dogged  covetous- 
ness  and  keen  sense  of  interest  with  which  he  had  to  contend. 


ioS  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"It  is  not  easy  for  either  of  us  to  deceive  the  other.  We  are 
men,  whose  perception  a  life  of  danger  has  sharpened  upon  all 
points ;  I  speak  to  you  frankly,  for  disguise  is  unavailing. 
Though  I  can  fly  from  your  reach, — though  I  can  desert  my 
present  home  and  my  intended  bride, — I  would  fain  think  I 
have  free  and  secure  choice  to  preserve  that  exact  path  and 
scene  of  life  which  I  have  chalked  out  for  myself :  I  would 
fain  be  rid  of  all  apprehension  from  you.  There  are  two  ways 
only  by  which  this  security  can  be  won  :  the  first  is  through 
your  death  ;  nay,  start  not,  nor  put  your  hand  on  your  pistol ; 
you  have  not  now  cause  to  fear  me.  Had  I  chosen  that 
method  of  escape,  I  could  have  effected  it  long  since  ;  when 
months  ago,  you  slept  under  my  roof, — ay,  slept — what  should 
have  hindered  me  from  stabbing  you  during  the  slumber? 
Two  nights  since,  when  my  blood  was  up,  and  the  fury  upon 
me,  what  should  have  prevented  me  tightening  the  grasp  that 
you  so  resent,  and  laying  you  breathless  at  my  feet  ?  Nay, 
now,  though  you  keep  your  eye  fixed  on  my  motions,  and  your 
hand  upon  your  weapon,  you  would  be  no  match  for  a  desperate 
and  resolved  man,  who  might  as  well  perish  in  conflict  with 
you  as  by  the  protracted  accomplishment  of  your  threats. 
Your  ball  might  fail — (  even  now  I  see  your  hand  trembles  ) — 
mine,  if  I  so  will  it,  is  certain  death.  No,  Houseman,  it  would 
be  as  vain  for  your  eye  to  scan  the  dark  pool  into  whose  breast 
yon  cataract  casts  its  waters,  as  for  your  intellect  to  pierce 
the  depths  of  my  mind  and  motives.  Your  murder,  though  in 
self-defence,  would  lay  a  weight  upon  my  soul,  which  would 
sink  it  forever :  I  should  see,  in  your  death,  new  chances  of 
detection  spread  themselves  before  me :  the  terrors  of  the 
dead  are  not  to  be  bought  or  awed  into  silence  ;  I  should  pass 
from  one  peril  into  another  ;  and  the  law's  dread  vengeance 
might  fall  upon  me,  through  the  last  peril,  even  yet  more 
surely  than  through  the  first.  Be  composed,  then,  on  this 
point  !  From  my  hand,  unless  you  urge  it  madly  upon  your- 
self, you  are  wholly  safe.  Let  us  turn  to  my  second  method 
of  attaining  security.  It  lies,  not  in  your  momentary  cessation 
from  persecutions  ;  not  in  your  absence  from  this  spot  alone  ; 
you  must  quit  the  country — you  must  never  return  to  it — your 
home  must  be  cast,  and  your  very  grave  dug,  in  a  foreign  soil. 
Are  you  prepared  for  this?  If  not,  I  can  say  no  more  ;  and  I 
again  cast  myself  passive  into  the  arms  of  fate." 

"  You  ask,"  said  Houseman,  whose  fears  were  allayed  by 
Aram's  address,  though,  at  the  same  time,  his.  dissolute  and 
desperate  nature  was  subdued  and  tamed,  in  spite  of  himself,  by 


EUGENE     ARAM.  309 

the  very  composure  of  the  loftier  mind  with  which  it  wasbrought 
in  contact  :  "  you  ask,"  said  he,  "  no  trifling  favor  of  a  man — 
to  desert  his  country  forever  ;  but  I  am  no  dreamer,  that  I 
should  love  one  spot  better  than  another.  I  might,  perhaps, 
prefer  a  foreign  clime,  as  the  safer  and  the  freer  from  old  rec- 
ollections, if  I  could  live  in  it  as  a  man  who  loves  the  relish  of 
life  should  do.  Show  me  the  advantages  I  am  to  gain  by  exile, 
and  farewell  to  the  pale  cliffs  of  England  forever." 

"  Your  demand  is  just,"  answered  Aram.  "  Listen,  then.  1 
am  willing  to  coin  all  my  poor  wealth,  save  alone  the  barest 
pittance  wherewith  to  sustain  life  ;  nay.  more,  I  am  prepared 
also  to  melt  down  the  whole  of  my  possible  expectations  from 
others,  into  the  form  of  an  annuity  to  yourself.  But  mark,  it 
will  be  taken  out  of  my  hands,  so  that  you  can  have  no  power 
over  me  to  alter  the  conditions  with  which  it  will  be  saddled. 
It  will  be  so  vested  that  it  shall  commence  the  moment  you 
touch  a  foreign  clime  ;  and  wholly  and  forever  cease  the  moment 
you  set  your  foot  on  any  part  of  English  ground  ;  or,  mark  also,  at 
the  moment  of  my  death.  I  shall  then  know  that  no  further 
hope  from  me  can  induce  you  to  risk  this  income ;  for,  as  I 
shall  have  spent  my  all  in  attaining  it,  you  cannot  even  medi- 
tate the  design  of  extorting  more.  I  shall  know  that  you  will 
not  menace  my  life  ;  for  my  death  would  be  the  destruction 
of  your  fortunes.  We  shall  live  thus  separate  and  secure  from 
each  other  ;  you  will  have  only  cause  to  hope  for  my  safety  ; 
and  I  shall  have  no  reason  to  shudder  at  your  pursuits.  It  is 
true,  that  one  source  of  fear  might  exist  for  me  still — namely, 
that  in  dying  you  should  enjoy  the  fruitless  vengeance  of 
criminating  me.  But  this  chance  I  must  patiently  endure  ; 
you,  if  older,  are  more  robust  and  hardy  than  myself ;  your 
life  will  probably  be  longer  than  mine  ;  and,  even  were  it  other- 
wise, why  should  we  destroy  one  another  ?  I  will  solemnly 
swear  to  respect  your  secret  at  my  death-bed  ;  why  not  on 
your  part,  I  say  not  swear,  but  resolve  to  respect  mine  ?  We 
cannot  love  one  another  ;  but  why  hate  with  a  gratuitous  and 
demon  vengeance  ?  No,  Houseman,  however  circumstances 
may  have  darkened  or  steeled  your  heart,  it  is  touched  with 
humanity  yet ;  you  will  owe  to  me  the  bread  of  a  secure  and 
easy  existence  ;  you  will  feel  that  I  have  stripped  myself,  even 
to  penury,  to  purchase  the  comforts  I  cheerfully  resign  to  you  ; 
you  will  remember  that,  instead  of  the  sacrifices  enjoined  by 
this  alternative,  I  might  have  sought  only  to  counteract  your 
threats,  by  attempting  a  life  that  you  strove  to  make  a  snare 
and  torture  to  my  own.  You  will  remember  this  ;  and  you  will 


210  EUGENE     ARAM. 

not  grudge  me  the  austere  and  gloomy  solitude  in  which  I  seek 
to  forget,  or  the  one  solace  with  which  I,  perhaps  vainly,  en- 
deavor to  cheer  my  passage  to  a  quiet  grave.  No,  Houseman, 
no  ;  dislike,  hate,  menace  me  as  you  will,  I  still  feel  I  shall  have 
no  cause  to  dread  the  mere  wantonness  of  your  revenge." 

These  words,  aided  by  a  tone  of  voice,  and  an  expression  of 
countenance  that  gave  them  perhaps  their  chief  effect,  took 
even  the  hardened  nature  of  Houseman  by  surprise  :  he  was 
affected  by  an  emotion  which  he  could  not  have  believed  it 
possible  the  man  who  till  then  had  galled  him  by  the  humbling 
sense  of  inferiority  could  have  created.  He  extended  his  hand 
to  Aram. 

"By ,"  he  exclaimed,  with  an  oath  which  we  spare  the 

reader  ;  "you  are  right !  you  have  made  me  as  helpless  in  your 
hands  as  an  infant.  I  accept  your  offer;  if  I  were  to  refuse 
it,  I  should  be  driven  to  the  same  courses  I  now  pursue.  But 
look  you  ;  I  know  not  what  may  be  the  amount  of  the  annuity 
you  can  raise.  I  shall  not,  however,  require  more  than  will 
satisfy  my  wants ;  which,  if  not  so  scanty  as  your  own,  are  not 
at  least  very  extravagant  or  very  refined.  As  for  the  rest,  if 
there  be  any  surplus,  in  God's  name  keep  it  for  yourself,  and 
rest  assured  that,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  you  shall  be 
molested  no  more." 

"  No,  Houseman,"  said  Aram,  with  a  half  smile,  "you  shall 
have  all  I  first  mentioned ;  that  is,  all  beyond  what  nature 
craves,  honorably  and  fully.  Man's  best  resolutions  are  weak: 
if  you  knew  I  possessed  aught  to  spare,  a  fancied  want,  a  momen- 
tary extravagance,  might  tempt  you  to  demand  it.  Let  us  put 
ourselves  beyond  the  possible  reach  of  temptation.  But  do 
not  flatter  yourself  by  the  hope  that  the  income  will  be  magnif- 
icent. My  own  annuity  is  but  trifling,  and  the  half  of  the 
dowry  I  expect  from  my  future  father-in-law  is  all  that  I  can 
at  present  obtain.  The  whole  of  that  dowry  is  insignificant  as 
a  sum.  But  if  this  does  not  suffice  for  you,  I  must  beg  or 
borrow  elsewhere." 

"  This,  after  all,  is  a  pleasanter  way  of  settling  business," 
said  Houseman,  "than  by  threats  and  anger.  And  now  I  will 
tell  you  exactly  the  sum  on  which,  if  I  could  receive  it  yearly, 
I  could  live  without  looking  beyond  the  pale  of  the  law  for 
more — on  which  I  could  cheerfully  renounce  England,  and 
commence  the  honest  man.'  But  then,  hark  you,  I  must  have 
half  settled  on  my  little  daughter." 

"What!  have  you  a  child?"  said  Aram  eagerly,  and  well 
pleased  to  find  an  additional  security  for  his  own  safety. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  211 

"Ay,  a  little  girl — my  only  one — in  her  eighth  year.  She 
jives  with  her  grandmother,  for  she  is  motherless  ;  and  that 
girl  must  not  be  left  quite  destitute  should  I  be  summoned 
hence  before  my  time.  Some  twelve  years  hence — as  poor  Jane 
promises  to  be  pretty— she  may  be  married  off  my  hands  ;  but 
her  childhood  must  not  be  exposed  to  the  chances  of  beggary 
or  shame." 

"  Doubtless  not,  doubtless  not.  Who  shall  say  now  that  we 
ever  outlive  feeling?"  said  Aram.  "Half  the  annuity  shall  be 
settled  upon  her,  should  she  survive  you  ;  but  on  the  same 
condition,  ceasing  when  I  die,  or  the  instant  of  your  return  to 
England.  And  now,  name  the  sum  that  you  deem  sufficing." 

"  Why,"  said  Houseman,  counting  on  his  fingers,  and  mutter- 
ing, "  twenty — fifty — wine  and  the  creature  cheap  abroad— 
humph  !  a  hundred  for  living,  and  half  as  much  for  pleasure. 
Come,  Aram,  one  hundred  and  fifty  guineas  per  annum,  English 
money,  will  do  for  a  foreign  life  ;  you  see  I  am  easily  satisfied." 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  Aram  ;  "  I  will  engage,  by  one  means  or 
another,  to  obtain  what  you  ask.  For  this  purpose  I  shall  set 
out  for  London  to-morrow  ;  I  will  not  lose  a  moment  in  seeing 
the  necessary  settlement  made  as  we  have  specified.  But, 
meanwhile,  you  must  engage  to  leave  this  neighborhood,  and, 
if  possible,  cause  your  comrades  to  do  the  same  ;  although  you 
will  not  hesitate,  for  the  sake  of  your  own  safety,  immediately 
to  separate  from  them." 

"  Now  that  we  are  on  good  terms,"  replied  Houseman,  "  I 
will  not  scruple  to  oblige  you  in  these  particulars.  My  com- 
rades intend  to  quit  the  country  before  to-morrow  ;  nay,  half  are 
already  gone :  by  daybreak  I  myself  will  be  some  miles 
hence,  and  separated  from  each  of  them.  Let  us  meet  in 
London  after  the  business  is  completed,  and  there  conclude 
our  last  interview  on  earth." 

"What  will  be  your  address?  " 

"In  Lambeth  there  is  a  narrow  alley  that  leads  to  the  water- 
side, called  Peveril  Lane.  The  last  house  to  the  right,  toward 
the  river,  is  my  usual  lodging  ;  a  safe  resting-place  at  all  times, 
and  for  all  men." 

"  There,  then,  will  I  seek  you.  And  now,  Houseman,  fare 
you  well  !  As  you  remember  your  word  to  me,  may  life  flow 
smooth  for  your  child." 

"Eugene  Aram,"  said  Houseman,  "there  is  about  you  some- 
thing against  which  the  fiercer  devil  within  me  would  rise  in 
vain.  I  have  read  that  the  tiger  can  be  awed  by  the  human 
eye,  and  you  compel  me  into  submission  by  a  spell  equally 


212  EUGENE      ARAM. 

unaccountable.  You  are  a  singular  man,  and  it  seems  to  me  a 
riddle  how  we  could  ever  have  been  thus  connected  ;  or  how — 
but  we  will  not  rip  up  the  past,  it  is  an  ugly  sight,  and  the  fire 
is  just  out.  Those  stories  do  not  do  for  the  dark.  But  to  re- 
turn ;  were  it  only  for  the  sake  of  my  child,  you  might 
depend  upon  me  now  ;  better,  too,  an  arrangement  of  this  sort, 
than  if  I  had  a  larger  sum  in  hand  which  I  might  be  tempted 
to  fling  away,  and,  in  looking  for  more,  run  my  neck  into  a 
halter,  and  leave  poor  Jane  upon  charity.  But  come,  it  is 
almost  dark  again,  and  no  doubt  you  wish  to  be  stirring :  stay, 
I  will  lead  you  back,  and  put  you  on  the  right  track,  lest  you 
stumble  on  my  friends." 

"Is  this  cavern  one  of  their  haunts  ?  "  said  Aram. 

"  Sometimes  ;  but  they  sleep  the  other  side  of  The  Devil's 
Crag  to-night.  Nothing  like  a  change  of  quarters  for  lon- 
gevity— eh  ? " 

"  And  they  easily  spare  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  it  be  only  on  rare  occasions,  and  on  the  plea  of 
family  business.  Now  then,  your  hand,  as  before.  'Sdeath  ! 
how  it  rains  ! — lightning  too  ! — I  could  look  with  less  fear  on 
a  naked  sword  than'those  red,  forked,  blinding  flashes.  Hark  ! 
thunder  !  " 

The  night  had  now,  indeed,  suddenly  changed  its  aspect ; 
the  rain  descended  in  torrents,  even  more  impetuously  than  on 
the  former  night,  while  the  thunder  burst  over  their  very  heads, 
as  they  wound  upward  through  the  brake.  With  every  instant 
the  lightning,  darting  through  the  riven  chasm  of  the  black- 
ness that  seemed  suspended  as  in  a  solid  substance  above, 
brightened  the  whole  heaven  into  one  livid  and  terrific  flame, 
and  showed  to  the  two  men  the  faces  of  each  other,  rendered 
deathlike  and  ghastly  by  the  glare.  Houseman  was  evidently 
affected  by  the  fear  that  sometimes  seizes  even  the  sturdiest 
criminals,  when  exposed  to  those  more  fearful  phenomena  of 
the  heavens,  which  seem  to  humble  into  nothing  the  power  and 
the  wrath  of  man.  His  teeth  chattered,  and  he  muttered 
broken  words  about  the  peril  of  wandering  near  trees  when 
the  lightning  was  of  that  forked  character,  quickening  his  pace 
at  every  sentence,  and  sometimes  interrupting  himself  with  an 
ejaculation,  half  oath,  half  prayer,  or  a  congratulation  that  the 
rain  at  least  diminished  the  danger.  They  soon  cleared  the 
thicket,  and  a  few  minutes  brought  them  once  more  to  the 
banks  of  the  stream,  and  the  increased  roar  of  the  cataract. 
No  earthly  scene,  perhaps,  could  surpass  the  appalling  sublimity 
of  that  which  they  beheld  ;  every  instant  the  lightning,  which 


EUGENE     ARAM.  213 

became  more  and  more  frequent,  converting  the  black  waters 
into  billows  of  living  fire,  or  wreathing  itself  in  lurid  spires 
around  the  huge  crag  that  now  rose  in  sight  ;  and  again,  as  the 
thunder  rolled  onward,  darting  its  vain  fury  upon  the  rushing 
cataract  and  the  tortured  breast  of  the  gulf  that  raved  below. 
And  the  sounds  that  filled  the  air  were  even  more  fraught  with 
terror  and  menace  than  the  scene :  the  waving,  the  groans, 
the  crash  of  the  pines  on  the  hill,  the  impetuous  force  of  the 
rain  upon  the  whirling  river,  and  the  everlasting  roar  of  the 
cataract,  answered  anon  by  the  yet  more  awful  voice  that 
burst  above  it  from  the  clouds. 

They  halted  while  yet  sufficiently  distant  from  the  cataract 
to  be  heard  by  each  other.  "  My  path,"  said  Aram,  as 
the  lightning  now  paused  upon  the  scene,  and  seemed 
literally  to  wrap  in  a  lurid  shroud  the  dark  figure  of  the  stu- 
dent, as  he  stood,  with  his  hand  calmly  raised,  and  his  cheek 
pale,  but  dauntless  and  composed, — "my  path  now  lies  yonder  : 
in  a  week  we  shall  meet  again." 

"  By  the  fiend  !  "  said  Houseman,  shuddering,  "  I  would  not, 
for  a  full  hundred,  ride  alone  through  the  moor  you  will  pass  ! 
There  stands  a  gibbet  by  the  road,  on  which  a  parricide  was 
hanged  in  chains.  Pray  Heaven  this  night  be  no  omen  of  the 
success  of  our  present  compact !  " 

"  A  steady  heart,  Houseman,"  answered  Aram,  striking  into 
the  separate  path,  "  is  its  own  omen." 

The  student  soon  gained  the  spot  in  which  he  had  left  his 
horse  ;  the  animal  had  not  attempted  to  break  the  bridle,  but 
stood  trembling  from  limb  to  limb,  and  testified  by  a  quick, 
short  neigh  the  satisfaction  with  which  it  hailed  the  approach 
of  its  master,  and  found  itself  no  longer  alone. 

Aram  remounted,  and  hastened  once  more  into  the  main 
road.  He  scarcely  felt  the  rain,  though  the  fierce  wind  drove 
it  right  against  his  path  ;  he  scarcely  marked  the  lightning, 
though,  at  times,  it  seemed  to  dart  its  arrows  on  his  very  form  : 
his  heart  was  absorbed  in  the  success  of  his  schemes. 

"  Let  the  storm  without  howl  on,"  thought  he,  "that  within 
hath  a  respite  at  last.  Amidst  the  winds  and  rains  I  can  breathe 
more  freely  than  I  have  done  on  the  smoothest  summer  day. 
By  the  charm  of  a  deeper  mind  and  a  subtler  tongue,  I  have 
conquered  this  desperate  foe  ;  I  have  silenced  this  inveterate 
spy  :  and,  Heaven  be  praised,  he  too  has  human  ties ;  and  by 
those  ties  I  hold  him  !  Now,  then,  I  hasten  to  London — I 
arrange  this  annuity — see  that  the  law  tightens  every  cord  of 
the  compact ;  ind  when  all  is  done,  and  this  dangerous  man 


214  EUGENE     ARAM. 

fairly  departed  on  his  exile,  I  return  to  Madeline,  and  devote  to 
her  a  life  no  longer  the  vassal  of  accident  and  the  hour.  But 
I  have  been  taught  caution.  Secure  as  my  own  prudence  may 
have  made  me  from  further  apprehension  of  Houseman,  I  will 
yet  place  myself  wholly  beyond  his  power :  I  will  still  consummate 
my  former  purpose,  adopt  a  new  name,  and  seek  a  new  retreat  : 
Madeline  may  not  know  the  real  cause  ;  but  this  brain  is  not 
barren  of  excuse.  Ah  ! "  as  drawing  his  cloak  closer  around 
him,  he  felt  the  purse  hid  within  his  breast  which  contained  the 
onder  he  had  obtained  from  Lester, — "ah  !  this  will  now  add 
its  quota  to  purchase,  not  a  momentary  relief,  but  the  stipend 
of  perpetual  silence.  I  have  passed  through  the  ordeal  easier 
than  I  had  hoped  for.  Had  the  devil  at  his  heart  been  more 
difficult  to  lay,  so  necessary  is  his  absence,  that  I  must  have 
purchased  it  at  any  cost.  Courage,  Eugene  Aram  !  thy  mind, 
for  which  thou  hast  lived,  and  for  which  thou  hast  hazarded 
thy  soul — if  soul  and  mind  be  distinct  from  each  other — thy 
mind  can  support  thee  yet  through  every  peril :  not  till  thou 
art  stricken  into  idiotcy  shalt  thou  behold  thyself  defenceless. 
How  cheerfully,"  muttered  he,  after  a  momentary  pause, — 
"  how  cheerfully,  for  safety,  and  to  breathe  with  a  quiet  heart 
the  air  of  Madeline's  presence,  shall  I  rid  myself  of  all  save 
enough  to  defy  want.  And  want  can  never  now  come  to  me,  as 
of  old.  He  who  knows  the  sources  of  every  science  from 
which  wealth  is  wrought  holds  even  wealth  at  his  will." 

Breaking  at  every  interval  into  these  soliloquies,  Aram  con- 
tinued to  breast  the  storm  until  he  had  won  half  his  journey, 
and  had  come  upon  a  long  and  bleak  moor,  which  was  the  en- 
trance to  that  beautiful  line  of  country  in  which  the  valleys 
around  Grassdale  are  embosomed  :  faster  and  faster  came  the 
rain  ;  and  though  the  thunder-clouds  were  now  behind,  they 
yet  followed  loweringly,  in  their  black  array,  the  path  of  the 
lonely  horseman. 

But  now  he  heard  the  sound  of  hoofs  making  towards  him  : 
he  drew  his  horse  on  one  side  of  the  road,  and  at  that  instant,  a 
broad  flash  of  lightning  illuminating  the  space  around,  he  be- 
held four  horsemen  speeding  along  at  a  rapid  gallop  :  they  wev^ 
armed,  and  conversing  loudly  ;  their  oaths  were  heard  jarringly 
and  distinctly  amidst  all  the  more  solemn  and  terrific  sounds 
of  the  night.  They  came  on,  sweeping  by  the  student,  whose 
hand  was  on  his  pistol,  for  he  recognized  in  one  of  the  riders 
the  man  who  had  escaped  unwounded  from  Lester's  house. 
He  and  his  comrades  were  evidently,  then,  Houseman's  des- 
perate associates  ;  and  they,  too,  though  they  were  borne  too 
* 


EUGENE     ARAM.  215 

rapidly  by  Aram  to  be  able  to  rein  in  their  horses  on  the  spot, 
had  seen  the  solitary  traveller,  and  already  wheeled  round,  and 
called  upon  him  to  halt ! 

The  lightning  was  again  gone,  and  the  darkness  snatched  the 
robbers,  and  their  intended  victim,  from  the  sight  of  each 
other.  But  Aram  had  not  lost  a  moment;  fast  fled  his  horse 
across  the  moor,  and  when,  with  the  next  flash,  he  looked  back, 
he  saw  the  ruffians,  unwilling  even  for  booty  to  encounter  the 
horrors  of  the  night,  had  followed  him  but  a  few  paces,  and 
again  turned  round  ;  still  he  dashed  on,  and  had  now  nearly 
passed  the  moor  ;  the  thunder  rolled  fainter  and  fainter  from 
behind,  and  the  lightning  only  broke  forth  at  prolonged  inter- 
vals, when  suddenly,  after  a  pause  of  unusual  duration,  it 
brought  the  whole  scene  into  a  light,  if  less  intolerable,  even 
more  livid  than  before.  The  horse,  that  had  hitherto  sped  on 
without  start  or  stumble,  now  recoiled  in  abrupt  affright ;  and 
the  horseman,  looking  up  at  the  cause,  beheld  the  gibbet,  of 
which  Houseman  had  spoken,  immediately  fronting  his  path, 
with  its  ghastly  tenant  waving  to  and  fro,  as  the  winds  rattled 
through  the  parched  and  arid  bones  ;  and  the  inexpressible  grin 
of  the  skull  fixed,  as  in  mockery,  upon  his  countenance. 


2l6  EUGENE     ARAM. 


BOOK  IV. 

'H  TLvirpte  av  irdvdqfioc  •  iAdff^eo  rrp  6sbv  embv 
Ovpavtav — 

*  *  *  # 

flPASINO'H.  Qdpoe,  Zuirvpluv,  yhvKspbv  rt-xof,  oi>  T^iyu  afifyvv  ' 
rOPFii.   AiaddvETai  TO  /3/ac^of ,  val  TUV  rrdrvtav  • 

THEOCR. 

The  Venus,  not  the  vulgar  !  Propitiate  the  divinity,  terming  her  the  Uranian. 
********* 

PRAXINOE.     Be  of  good  cheer,  Zopyrian,  dear  child  ;  I  do  not  speak  of  thy 

Father. 
GORGO.     The  boy  comprehends,  by  Proserpine  ! 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN  WHICH  WE  RETURN  TO  WALTER. — HIS  DEBT  OF  GRATI- 
TUDE TO  MR.  PERTINAX  FILLGKAVE. — THE  CORPORAL'S  AD- 
VICE, AND  THE  CORPORAL'S  VICTORY. 

"  Let  a  physician  be  ever  so  excellent,  there  will  be  those  that  censure 
him."—  Gil  Bias. 

WE  left  Walter  in  a  situation  of  that  critical  nature,  that  it 
would  be  inhuman  to  delay  our  return  to  him  any  longer.  The 
blow  by  which  he  had  been  felled  stunned  him  for  an  instant ; 
but  his  frame  was  of  no  common  strength  and  hardihood,  and 
the  imminent  peril  in  which  he  was  placed  served  to  recall  him 
from  the  momentary  insensibility.  On  recovering  himself  he 
felt  that  the  ruffians  were  dragging  him  towards  the  hedge,  and 
the  thought  flashed  upon  him  that  their  object  was  murder. 
Nerved  by  this  idea,  he  collected  his  strength,  and  suddenly 
wresting  himself  from  the  grasp  of  one  of  the  ruffians  who 
had  seized  him  by  the  collar,  he  had  already  gained  his  knee, 
and  now  his  feet,  when  a  second  blow  once  more  deprived  him 
of  sense. 

When  a  dim  and  struggling  consciousness  recurred  to  him, 
he  found  that  the  villains  had  dragged  him  to  the  opposite  side 
of  the  hedge  and  were  deliberately  robbing  him.  He  was  on 
the  point  of  renewing  a  useless  and  dangerous  struggle,  when 
one  of  the  ruffians  said  : 

"  I  think  he  stirs.  I  had  better  draw  my  knife  across  his 
throat." 


EUGENE      ARAM,  2lJ 

"Pooh,  no  !  "  replied  another  voice  ;  "never  kill  if  it  can  be 
helped  :  trust  me 'tis  an  ugly  thing  to  think  of  afterwards.  Be- 
sides, what  use  is  it  ?  A  robbery  in  these  parts  is  done  and 
forgotten  ;  but  a  murder  rouses  the  whole  country." 

"  Damnation,  man  !  why,  the  deed's  done  already  :  he's  as 
dead  as  a  door-nail." 

"  Dead  ! "  said  the  other,  in  a  startled  voice  ;  "  no,  no  ! " 
and  leaning  down,  the  ruffian  placed  his  hand  on  Walter's 
heart.  The  unfortunate  traveller  felt  his  flesh  creep  as  the 
hand  touched  him,  but  prudently  abstained  from  motion  or 
exclamation.  He  thought,  however,  as  with  dizzy  and  half- 
shut  eyes  he  caught  the  shadowy  and  dusk  outline  of  the  face 
that  bent  over  him  so  closely  that  he  felt  the  breath  of  its  lips, 
that  it  was  a  face  he  had  seen  before  ;  and  as  the  man  now 
rose,  and  the  wan  light  of  the  skies  gave  a  somewhat  clearer 
view  of  his  features,  the  supposition  was  heightened,  though 
not  absolutely  confirmed.  But  Walter  had  no  further  power 
to  observe  his  plunderers  :  again  his  brain  reeled  ;  the  dark 
trees,  the  grim  shadows  of  human  forms,  swam  before  his  glaz- 
ing eye  ;  and  he  sunk  once  more  into  a  profound  insensibility. 
Meanwhile,  the  doughty  corporal  had,  at  the  first  sight  of 
his  master's  fall,  halted  abruptly  at  the  spot  to  which  his  steed 
had  carried  him  ;  and  coming  rapidly  to  the  conclusion  that 
three  men  were  best  encountered  at  a  distance,  he  fired  his  two 
pistols,  and  without  staying  to  see  it  they  took  eftect,  which, 
indeed,  they  did  not,  galloped  down  the  precipitous  hill  with  as 
much  despatch  as  if  it  had  been  the  last  stage  to"Lunnun." 

"  My  poor  young  master  !  "  muttered  he.  "  But  if  the  worst 
comes  to  the  worst,  the  chief  part  of  the  money's  in  the  saddle- 
bags anyhow  ;  and  so  messieurs  thieves,  you're  bit — baugh  !  " 
The  corporal  was  not  long  in  reaching  the  town,  and  alarm- 
ing the  loungers  at  the  inn-door.  A  posse  comitatus  was  soon 
formed  ;  and,  armed  as  if  they  were  to  have  encountered  all  the 
robbers  between  Hounslow  and  the  Apennine,  a  band  of 
heroes,  with  the  corporal,  who  had  first  deliberately  reloaded 
his  pistols,  at  their  head,  set  off  to  succor  "the  poor  gentleman 
what  was  already  murdered." 

They  had  not  got  far  before  they  found  Walter's  horse,  which 
had  luckily  broke  from  the  robbers,  and  was  now  quietly  re- 
galing himself  on  a  patch  of  grass  by  the  roadside.  "  lie  can 
get  his  supper,  the  beast !  "  grunted  the  corporal,  thinking  of 
his  own  ;  and  bade  one  of  the  party  try  to  catch  the  animal, 
which,  however,  would  have  declined  all  such  proffers,  had  not 
a  long  neigh  of  recognition  from  the  Roman  nose  of  the  cor 


2l8  EUGENE      ARAM. 

poral's  steed,  striking' familiarly  on  the  stragglers  ear,  called  it 
forthwith  to  the  corporal's  side  ;  and  (while  the  two  chargers 
exchanged  greeting)  the  corporal  seized  its  rein. 

When  they  came  to  the  spot  from  which  the  robbers  had 
made  their  sally,  all  was  still  and  tranquil  ;  no  Walter  was  to 
be  seen  :  the  corporal  cautiously  dismounted,  and  searched 
about  with  as  much  minuteness  as  if  he  were  looking  for  a  pin  ; 
but  the  host  of  the  inn  at  which  the  travellers  had  dined  the 
day  before,  stumbled  at  once  on  the  right  track.  Gouts  of 
blood  on  the  white  chalky  soil  directed  him  to  the  hedge,  and 
creeping  through  a  small  and  recent  gap,  he  discovered  the  yet 
breathing  body  of  the  young  traveller. 

Walter  was  now  conducted  with  much  care  to  the  inn  ;  a 
surgeon  was  already  in  attendance  ;  for  having  heard  that  a 
gentleman  had  been  murdered  without  his  knowledge,  Mr. 
Pertinax  Fillgrave  had  rushed  from  his  house,  and  placed  him- 
self on  the  road,  that  the  poor  creature  might  not,  at  least,  be 
buried  without  his  assistance.  So  eager  was  he  to  begin,  that 
he  scarce  suffered  the  unfortunate  Walter  to  be  taken  within, 
before  he  whipped  out  his  instruments  and  set  to  work  with  the 
smack  of  an  amateur. 

Although  the  surgeon  declared  his  patient  to  be  in  the  great- 
est possible  danger,  the  sagacious  corporal,  who  thought  him- 
self more  privileged  to  know  about  wounds  than  any  manor 
peace,  by  profession,  however  destructive  by  practice,  could 
possibly  be,  had  himself  examined  those  his  master  had  re- 
ceived, before  he  went  down  to  taste  his  long-delayed  supper  ; 
and  he  now  confidently  assured  the  landlord  and  the  rest  of 
the  good  company  in  the  kitchen,  that,  the  blows  on  the  head 
had  been  mere  flea-bites,  and  that  his  master  would  be  as  well  as 
ever  in  a  week  at  the  farthest. 

And,  indeed,  when  Walter  the  very  next  morning  woke  from 
the  stupor,  rather  than  sleep,  he  had  undergone,  he  felt  himself 
surprisingly  better  than  the  surgeon,  producing  his  probe,  has- 
tened to  assure  him  he  possibly  could  be. 

By  the  help  of  Mr.  Pertinax  Fillgrave,  Walter  was  detained 
several  days  in  the  town  ;  nor  is  it  wholly  improbable,  but  that 
for  the  dexterity  of  the  corporal,  he  might  be  in  the  town  to  this 
day  ;  not,  indeed,  in  the  comfortable  shelter  of  the  old-fashioned 
inn,  but  in  the  colder  quarters  of  a  certain  green  spot,  in  which, 
despite  of  its  rural  attractions,  few  persons  are  willing  to  fix,  a 
permanent  habitation. 

Luckily,  however,  one  evening,  the  corporal,  who  had  been,  to 
say  truth,  very  regular  in  his  attendance  on  his  master ;  for, 


EUGENE      ARAM.  219 

bating  the  selfishness  consequent,  perhaps,  on  his  knowledge  of 
the  world,  Jacob  Bunting  was  a  good-natured  man  on  the 
whole,  and  liked  his  master  as  well  as  he  did  anything,  always 
excepting  Jacobina  and  board-wages  ;  one  evening,  we  say, 
the  corporal,  coming  into  Walter's  apartment,  found  him  sitting 
up  in  his  bed,  with  a  very  melancholy  and  dejected  expression 
of  countenance. 

"And  well,  sir,  what  does  the  doctor  say?"  asked  the 
corporal,  drawing  aside  the  curtains. 

"  Ah  !  Bunting,  I  fancy  it's  all  over  with  me  !  " 

"  The  Lord  forbid,  sir  !     You're  a-jesting,  surely  ?  " 

"Jesting  !  my  good  fellow  :    ah  !  just  get  me  that  phial." 

"  The  filthy  stuff  !  "  said  the  corporal,  with  a  wry  face. 
"Well,  sir,  if  I  had  had  the  dressing  of  you — been  half-way  to 
Yorkshire  by  this.  Man's  a  worm  ;  and  when  a  doctor  gets  un 
on  his  hook,  he  is  sure  to  angle  for  the  devil  with  the  bait. 
Augh  !  " 

"  What !  you  really  think  that  d — d  fellow,  Fillgrave,  is  keep- 
ing me  on  in  this  way  ?  " 

"  Is  he  a  fool,  to  give  up  three  phials  a  day,  4^.  6d.  item,  ditto, 
ditto?"  cried  the  corporal,  as  if  astonished  at  the  question. 
"  But  don't  you  feel  yourself  getting  a  deal  better  every  day  ? 
Don't  you  feel  all  this  ere  stuff  revive  you?" 

"  No,  indeed  ;  I  was  amazingly  better  the  first  day  than  I  am 
now  ;  I  make  progress  from  worse  to  worse.  Ah  !  Bunting,,  if 
Peter  Dealtry  were  here,  he  might  help  me  to  an  appropriate 
epitaph  :  as  it  is,  I  suppose  I  shall  be  very  simply  labelled. 
Fillgrave  will  do  the  whole  business,  and  put  it  down  in  his  bill ; 
item,  nine  draughts  ;  item,  one  epitaph." 

"  Lord-a-mercy,  your  honor ! "  said  the  corporal,  drawing 
out  a  little  red-spotted  pocket-handkerchief  ;  ''  how  can— jest 
so? — it's  quite  moving." 

*'  I  wish  we  were  moving  !  "  sighed  the  patient. 

"  And  so  we  might  be,"  cried  the  corporal ;  "  so  we  might,  if 
you'd  pluck  up  a  bit.  Just  let  me  look  at  your  honor's  :  head  ; 
i:  knows  what  a  c6n/usion  is  better  nor  any  of 'em." 

The  corporal,  having  obtained  permission,  now  removed 
the  bandages  wherewith  the  doctor  had  bound  his  intended 
sacrifice  to  Pluto,  and  after  peering,  into  the  .wounds  for 
about  a  minute,  he  thrust  out  his  under-lip,  with  a  con- 
temptuous— 

"  Pshaugh  !  augh  !  And  how  long,"  said  he,  "does  Master 
Fillgrave  say  you  be  to  be  under  his  hands  ? — augh  !  " 

"He  gives  me  hopes  that  I  may  be  taken  out  an  airing  very 


220  EUGENE      ARAM. 

gently  (yes,  hearses  always  go  very  gently  !)  in  about  three 
weeks  ! " 

The  corporal  started,  and  broke  into  a  long  whistle.  He  then 
grinned  from  ear  to  ear,  snapped  his  fingers,  and  said,  "Man  of 
the  world,  sir, — man  of  the  world  every  inch  of  him  !  " 

"  He  seems  resolved  that  I  shall  be  a  man  of  another  world," 
said  Walter. 

"  Tell  ye  what,  sir, — take  my  advice  ;  your  honor  knows  I  be 
no  fool.  Throw  off  them  ere  wrappers  ;  let  me  put  on  a  scrap 
of  plaster  ;  pitch  phials  to  devil ;  order  out  horses  to-morrow, 
and  when  you've  been  in  the  air  half  an  hour,  won't  know  your- 
self again  !  " 

"  Bunting  !  the  horses  out  to-morrow  ?  Faith,  I  don't  think 
I  could  walk  across  the  room." 

"  Just  try,  your  honor." 

"  Ah  !  I'm  very  weak,  very  weak — my  dressing-gown  and 
slippers — your  arm,  Bunting.  Well,  upon  my  honor,  I  walk  very 
stoutly,  eh  ?  I  should  not  have  thought  this !  Leave  go  :  why, 
I  really  get  on  without  your  assistance !  " 

"Walk  as  well  as  ever  you  did." 

"  Now  I'm  out  of  bed,  I  don't  think  I  shall  go  back  again 
to  it." 

"  Would  not,  if  I  was  your  honor." 

"  And  after  so  much  exercise,  I  really  fancy  I've  a  sort  of  an 
appetite." 

"  Like  a  beefsteak  ? " 

'  Nothing  better." 

'Pint  of  wine?" 

'  Why,  that  would  be  too  much — eh  ?  " 

'Not  it." 

'  Go,  then,  my  good  Bunting  :  go,  and  make  haste — stop,  I 
say,  that  d — d  fellow — " 

"  Good  sign  to  swear,"  interrupted  the  corporal ;  "  swore 
twice  within  last  five  minutes — famous  symptom  !  " 

"  Do  you  choose  to  hear  me  ?  That  d — d  fellow,  Fillgrave, 
is  coming  back  in  an  hour  to  bleed  me  :  do  you  mount  guard — 
refuse  to  let  him  in — pay  him  his  bill — you  have  the  money. 
And  harkye,  don't  be  rude  to  the  rascal." 

"Rude,  your  honor!  not  I — been  in  the  Forty-second — 
knows  discipline — only  rude  to  the  privates!" 

The  corporal  having  seen  his  master  conduct  himself  respect- 
ably towards  the  viands  with  which  he  supplied  him;  having  set 
his  room  to  rights,  brought  him  the  candles,  borrowed  him  a 
book,  and  left  him,  for  the  present,  in  extremely  good  spirits, 


EUGENE      ARAM.  221 

and  prepared  for  the  flight  of  the  morrow  ;  the  corporal,  I  say, 
now  lighting  his  pipe,  stationed  himself  at  the  door  of  the  inn, 
and  waited  for  Mr.  Pertinax  Fillgrave.  Presently  the  doctor, 
who  was  a  little  thin  man,  came  bustling  across  the  street,  and 
was  about,  with  a  familiar  "Good-evening,"  to  pass  by  the 
corporal,  when  that  worthy,  dropping  his  pipe,  said  respectfully, 
"  Beg  pardon,  sir, — want  to  speak  to  you — a  little  favor.  Will 
your  honor  walk  into  the  back-parlor  ?  " 

"Oh!  another  patient,"  thought  the  doctor  ;  "  these  soldiers 
are  careless  fellows — often  get  into  scrapes.  Yes,  friend,  I'm  at 
your  service." 

The  corporal  showed  the  man  of  phials  into  the  back-parlor, 
and,  hemming  thrice,  looked  sheepish,  as  if  in  doubt  how 
to  begin.  It  was  the  doctor's  business  to  encourage  the 
bashful. 

"Well,  my  good  man,"  said  he,  brushing  off,  with  the  arm  of 
his  coat,  some  dust  that  had  settled  on  his  inexpressibles,  "  so 
you  want  to  consult  me?" 

"  Indeed,  your  honor,  I  do ;  but — feel  a  little  awkward  in 
doing  so — a  stranger  and  all." 

"Pooh  ! — medical  men  are  never  strangers.  I  am  the  friend 
of  every  man  who  requires  my  assistance." 

"Augh! — and  I  do  require  your  honor's  assistance  very 
sadly." 

"  Well — well — speak  out.     Anything  of  long  standing  ?  " 

"  Why,  only  since  we  have  been  here,  sir." 

"  Oh,  that's  all !     Well." 

"Your  honor's  so  good — that — won't  scruple  in  telling  you 
all.  You  sees  as  how  we  were  robbed — master,  at  least,  was — 
had  some  little  in  my  pockets — but  we  poor  servants  are  never 
too  rich.  You  seems  such  a  kind  gentleman — so  attentive  to 
master — though  you  must  have  felt  how  disinterested  it  was 
to  'tend  a  man  what  had  been  robbed — that  I  have  no  hesita- 
tion in  making  bold  to  ask  you  to  lend  us  a  few  guineas,  just  to 
help  us  out  with  the  bill  here — bother  !  " 

"  Fellow  !  "  said  the  doctor,  rising,  "I  don't  know  what  you 
mean  ;  but  I'd  have  you  to  learn  that  I  am  not  to  be  cheated 
out  of  my  time  and  property  !  I  shall  insist  upon  being  paid 
my  bill  instantly,  before  I  dress  your  master's  wound  once 
more ! " 

"  Augh  !  "  said  the  corporal,  who  was  delighted  to  find  the 
doctor  come  so  immediately  into  the  snare  :  "won't  be  so  cruel, 
surely  !  why,  you'll  leave  us  without  a  shiner  to  pay  my  host 
here  ! " 


322  EUGENE      ARAM. 

"  Nonsense  !  Your  master,  if  he's  a  gentleman,  can  write 
home  for  money." 

"Ah,  sir,  all  very  well  to  say  so  ;  but,  between  you  and  me 
and  the  bed-post,  young  master's  quarrelled  with  old  master — • 
old  master  won't  give  him  a  rap  :  so  I'm  sure,  since  your  hon- 
or's a  friend  to  every  man  who  requires  your  assistance — noble 
saying,  sir ! — you  won't  refuse  us  a  few  guineas.  And  as  for 
your  bill — why — " 

"  Sir,  you're  an  impudent  vagabond  !  "  cried  the  doctor,  as 
red  as  a  rose-draught,  and  flinging  out  of  the  room  ;  "  and  I 
warn  you,  that  I  shall  bring  in  my  bill,  and  expect  to  be  paid 
within  ten  minutes." 

The  doctor  waited  for  no  answer  ;  he  hurried  home,  scratched 
off  his  account,  and  flew  back  with  it  in  as  much  haste  as  if 
his  patient  had  been  a  month  longer  under  his  care,  and  was 
consequently  on  the  brink  of  that  happier  world,  where,  since 
the  inhabitants  are  immortal,  it  is  very  evident  that  doctors,  as 
being  useless,  are  never  admitted. 

The  corporal  met  him  as  before. 

"  There,  sir  ! "  cried  the  doctor  breathlessly  ;  and  then  put- 
ting his  arms  akimbo,  "  take  that  to  your  master,  and  desire 
him  to  pay  me  instantly." 

"  Augh  !  and  shall  do  no  such  thing." 

"You  won't?" 

"  No,  for  shall  pay  you  myself.     Where's  your  receipt — eh  ?  " 

And  with  great  composure  the  corporal  drew  out  a  well- 
filled  purse,  and  discharged  the  bill.  The  doctor  was  so  thun- 
derstricken,  that  he  pocketed  the  money  without  uttering  a  word. 
He  consoled  himself,  however,  with  the  belief  that  Walter, 
whom  he  had  tamed  into  a  becoming  hypochondria,  would  be 
sure  to  send  for  him  the  next  morning.  Alas,  for  mortal  ex- 
pectations !  the  next  morning  Walter  was  once  more  on  the 
road. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  22$ 


CHAPTER  II. 

NEW  TRACES  OF  THE  FATE  OF  GEOFFREY  LESTER. — WALTER 
AND  THE  CORPORAL  PROCEED  ON  A  FRESH  EXPEDITION. — 
THE  CORPORAL  IS  ESPECIALLY  SAGACIOUS  ON  THE  OLD 
TOPIC  OF  THE  WORLD. — HIS  OPINIONS  ON  THE  MEN  WHO 
CLAIM  KNOWLEDGE  THEREOF  ;  ON  THE  ADVANTAGES  EN- 
JOYED BY  A  VALET  ;  ON  THE  SCIENCE  OF  SUCCESSFUL 
LOVE  ;  ON  VIRTUE  AND  THE  CONSTITUTION  ;  ON  QUALITIES 
TO  BE  DESIRED  IN  A  MISTRESS,  ETC. — A  LANDSCAPE. 

"  This  way  of  talking  of  his  very  much  enlivens  the  conversation  among 
us  of  a  more  sedate  turn." — Spectator,  No.  III. 

WALTER  found,  while  he  made  search  himself,  that  it  was 
no  easy  matter,  in  so  large  a  county  as  Yorkshire,  to  obtain 
even  the  preliminary  particulars,  viz.,  the  place  of  residence, 
and  the  name  of  the  colonel  from  India  whose  dying  gift  his 
father  had  left  the  house  of  the  worthy  Courtland  to  claim  and 
receive.  But  the  moment  he  committed  the  inquiry  to  the  care 
of  an  active  and  intelligent  lawyer,  the  case  seemed  to  brighten 
up  prodigiously  ;  and  Walter  was  shortly  informed  that  a 
Colonel  Elmore,  who  had  been  in  India,  had  died  in  the  year 
1 7 —  ;  that  by  a  reference  to  his  will,  it  appeared  that  he  had  left 
to  Daniel  Clarke  the  sum  of  a  thousand  pounds,  and  the  house 
in  which  he  resided  before  his  death  ;  the  latter  being  merely 
leasehold,  at  a  high  rent,  was  specified  in  the  will  to  be  of 
small  value  :  it  was  situated  in  the  outskirts  of  Knaresborough. 
It  was  also  discovered  that  a  Mr.  Jonas  Elmore,  the  only  sur- 
viving executor  of  the  will,  and  a  distant  relation  of  the  de- 
ceased colonel's,  lived  about  fifty  miles  from  York,  and  could, 
in  all  probability,  better  than  any  one,  afford  Walter  those 
farther  particulars  of  which  he  was  so  desirous  to  be  informed. 
Walter  immediately  proposed  to  his  lawyer  to  accompany  him 
to  this  gentleman's  house  ;  but  it  so  happened  that  the  lawyer 
could  not  for  three  or  four  days  leave  his  business  at  York  ; 
and  Walter,  exceedingly  impatient  to  proceed  on  the  intelligence 
thus  granted  him,  and  disliking  the  meagre  information  ob- 
tained from  letters,  when  a  personal  interview  could  be  obtained> 
resolved  himself  to  repair  to  Mr.  Jonas  Elmore's  without  fai- 
ther  delay.  And  behold,  therefore,  our  worthy  corporal  and 
his  master  again  mounted,  and  commencing  a  new  journey. 

The  corporal,  always  fond  of  adventure,  was  in  high  spirits. 

"  See,  sir,"  said  he  to  his  master,  patting  with  great  affection 


224  EUGENE     ARAM. 

the  neck  of  his  steed, — "see,  sir,  how  brisk  the  creturs  are ; 
what  a  deal  of  good  their  long  rest  at  York  city's  done  'ern  ! 
Ah,  your  honor,  what  a  fine  town  that  ere  be !  Yet,"  added 
the  corporal,  with  an  air  of  great  superiority,  "  it  gives  you  no 
notion  of  Lunnun  like  ;  on  the  faith  a  man,  no !  " 

"  Well,  Bunting,  perhaps  we  may  be  in  London  within  a 
month  hence." 

"  And  afore  we  gets  there,  your  honor, — no  offence, — but 
should  like  to  give  you  some  advice  ;  'tis  ticklish  place  that 
Lunnun  ;  and  though  you  be  by  no  manner  of  means  deficient 
in  genus,  yet  sir,  you  be  young,  and  /  be — " 

"  Old ; — true,  Bunting,"  added  Walter,  very  gravely. 

"  Augh — bother  !  old,  sir  !  old,  sir  !  A  man  in  the  prime  of 
life, — hair  coal  black  (bating  a  few  gray  ones  that  have  had 
since  twenty, — care,  and  military  service,  sir) — carriage  straight, 
teeth  strong, — not  an  ail  in  the  world,  bating  the  rheu- 
matics,— is  not  old,  sir, — not  by  no  manner  of  means — 
baugh  !  " 

"  You  are  very  right,  Bunting  :  when  I  said  old,  I  meant  ex- 
perienced. I  assure  you  I  shall  be  very  grateful  for  your  ad- 
vice ;  and  suppose,  while  we  walk  our  horses  up  this  hill,  you 
begin  lecture  the  first.  London's  a  fruitful  subject  ;  all  you 
can  say  on  it  will  not  be  soon  exhausted." 

"  Ah,  may  well  say  that,"  replied  the  corporal,  exceedingly 
flattered  with  the  permission  he  had  obtained  ;  "and  anything 
my  poor  wit  can  suggest,  quite  at  your  honor's  sarvice, — ehem, 
hem  !  You  must  know  by  Lunnun,  I  means  the  world,  and  by 
the  world  means  Lunnun  ;  know  one — know  t'other.  But  'tis 
not  them  as  affects  to  be  most  knowing  as  be  so  at  bottom. 
Begging  your  honor's  pardon,  I  thinks  gentlefolks  what  lives 
only  with  gentlefolks,  and  calls  themselves  men  of  the  world, 
be  often  no  wiser  nor  Pagan  creturs,  and  live  in  a  Gentile 
darkness." 

"  The  true  knowledge  of  the  world,"  said  Walter,  "  is  only 
then  for  the  corporals  of  the  Forty-second, — eh,  Bunting  ?" 

"As  to  that,  sir,"  quoth  the  corporal,  "  'tis  not  being  of  this 
calling  or  of  that  calling  that  helps  one  on  ;  'tis  an  inborn  sort 
of  genus,  the  talent  of  obsarving,  and  growing  wise  by  obsarv- 
ing.  One  picks  up  crumb  here,  crumb  there  ;  but  if  one  has 
not  good  digestion,  Lord,  what  sinnifies  a  feast  ?  Healthy  man 
thrives  on  a  'tatoe,  sickly  looks  pale  on  a  haunch.  You  sees, 
your  honor,  as  I  said  afore,  I  was  own  sarvant  to  Colonel  Dy- 
sart  ;  he  was  a  lord's  nephy,  a  very  gay  gentleman,  and  great 
hand  with  the  ladies, — not  a  man  more  in  the  world  ;  so  I  had 


EUGENE     ARAM.  22$ 

the  opportunity  of  laming  what's  what  among  the  best  set  ;  at 
his  honor's  expense,  too, — augh  !  To  my  mind,  sir,  there'snot 
a  place  from  which  a  man  has  a  better  view  of  things  than  the 
bit  carpet  behind  a  gentleman's  chair.  The  gentleman  eats, 
and  talks,  and  swears,  and  jests,  and  plays  cards,  and  makes 
love,  and  tries  to  cheat,  and  is  cheated,  and  his  man  stands 
behind  with  his  eyes  and  ears  open — augh  !  " 

"One  should  go  into  service  to  learn  diplomacy,  1  see,"  s:\id 
Walter,  greatly  amused. 

u  Does  not  know  what  'plomacy  be,  sir,  but  knows  it  would 
be  better  for  many  a  young  master  nor  all  the  colleges  ;  would 
not  be  so  many  bubbles  if  my  lord  could  take  a  turn  now  and 
then  with  John.  A-well,  sir  !  how  I  used  to  laugh  in  my 
sleeve  like,  when  I  saw  my  master,  who  was  thought  the  know- 
ingest  gentleman  about  Court,  taken  in  every  day  smack  afore 
my  face.  There  was  one  lady  whom  he  had  tried  hard,  as  he 
thought,  to  get  away  from  her  husband  ;  and  he  used  to  be  so 
mighty  pleased  at  every  glance  from  her  brown  eyes — and  be 
d — d  to  them  ! — and  so  careful  the  husband  should  not  see — 
so  pluming  himself  on  his  discretion  here,  and  his  conquest 
there, — when,  Lord  bless  you,  it  was  all  settled  'twixt  man  and 
wife  aforehand  !  And  while  the  colonel  laughed  at  the  cuckold, 
the  cuckold  laughed  at  the  dupe.  For  you  sees,  sir,  as  how 
the  colonel  was  a  rich  man,  and  the  jewels  as  he  bought  for  the 
lady  went  half  into  the  husband's  pocket — he  !  he !  That's 
the  way  of  the  world,  sir, — that's  the  way  of  the  world  !  " 

"  Upon  my  word,  you  draw  a  very  bad  picture  of  the  world  : 
you  color  highly  ;  and  by  the  way,  I  observe  that  whenever  you 
find  any  man  committing  a  roguish  action,  instead  of  calling 
him  a  scoundrel,  you  show  those  great  teeth  of  yours,  and 
chuckle  out  '  A  man  of  the  world  !  a  man  of  the  world  ! ' 

"  To  be  sure,  your  honor  ;  the  proper  name,  too.  'Tis  your 
greenhorns  who  fly  into  a  passion,  and  use  hard  words.  You 
see,  sir,  there's  one  thing  we  larn  afore  all  other  things  in  the 
world — to  butter  bread.  Knowledge  of  others  means  only 
the  knowledge  which  side  bread's  buttered.  In  short,  sir,  the 
wiser  grow,  the  more  take  care  of  oursels.  Some  persons  make 
a  mistake,  and,  in  trying  to  take  care  of  themsels,  run  neck 
into  halter — baugh  !  they  are  not  rascals — they  are  would-be 
men  of  the  world.  Others  be  more  prudent  ( for,  as  I  said 
afore,  sir,  discretion  is  a  pair  of  stirrups)  ;  they  be  the  true 
men  of  the  world." 

"I  should  have  thought,"  said  Walter,  "that  the  knowledge 
of  the  world  might  be  that  knowledge  which  preserves 


226  EUGENE     ARAM. 

us  from  being  cheated,  but  not  that  which  enables  us  to 
cheat." 

"Augh  ! "  quoth  the  corporal,  with  that  sort  of  smile  with 
which  you  see  an  old  philosopher  put  down  a  high-sounding 
error  from  a  young  disciple  who  flatters  himself  he  has  uttered 
something  prodigiously  fine, — "  augh  !  and  did  I  not  tell  you, 
t'other  day,  to  look  at  the  professions,  your  honor  ?  What 
would  a  laryer  be  if  he  did  not  know  how  to  cheat  a  witness 
and  humbug  a  jury  ? — knows  he  is  lying ;  why  is  he  lying  ? 
for  love  of  his  fees,  or  his  fame  like,  which  gets  fees  ;  augh  ! 
is  not  that  cheating  others  ?  The  doctor,  too — Master  Fill- 
grave,  for  instance?" 

"  Say  no  more  of  doctors  ;  I  abandon  them  to  your  satire, 
without  a  word." 

"  The  lying  knaves  !  Don't  they  say  one's  well  when  one's 
ill — ill  when  one's  well  ? — profess  to  know  what  don't  know  ? 
thrust  solemn  phizzes  into  every  abomination,  as  if  laming  lay 

hid  in  a ?  and  all  for  their  neighbor's  money,  or  their  own 

reputation,  which  makes  money — augh  !  In  short,  sir,  look 
where  will,  impossible  to  see  so  much  cheating  allowed,  praised, 
encouraged,  and  feel  very  angry  with  a  cheat  who  has  only 
made  a  mistake.  But  when  I  sees  a  man  butter  his  bread 
carefully — knife  steady — butter  thick,  and  hungry  fellows  look- 
ing on  and  licking  chops — mothers  stopping  their  brats;  'See, 
child,  respectable  man, — how  thick  his  bread's  buttered  !  pull 
off  your  hat  to  him'; — when  I  see  that,  my  heart  warms: 
there's  the  tnte  man  of  the  world — augh  !  " 

"Well,  Bunting,"  said  Walter,  laughing,  " though  you  are 
thus  lenient  to  those  unfortunate  gentlemen  whom  others  call 
rogues,  and  thus  laudatory  of  gentlemen  who  are  at  best  dis- 
creetly selfish,  I  suppose  you  admit  the  possibility  of  virtue, 
and  your  heart  warms  as  much  when  you  see  a  man  of  worth 
as  when  you  see  a  man  of  the  world  ?" 

"Why,  you  knows,  your  honor,"  answered  the  corporal,  "  so 
far  as  vartue's  concerned,  there's  a  deal  in  constitution  ;  but  as 
for  knowledge  of  the  world,  one  gets  it  oneself !  " 

"  I  don't  wonder,  Bunting — as  your  opinion  of  women  is 
much  the  same  as  your  opinion  of  men — that  you  are  still  un- 
married." 

"Augh  !  but  your  honor  mistakes ;  I  am  no  mice-and-trope. 
Men  are  neither  one  thing  nor  t'other,  neither  good  nor  bad. 
A  prudent  parson  has  nothing  to  fear  from  'em,  nor  a  foolish 
one  anything  to  gain — baugh  !  As  to  the  women  creturs,  your 
honor,  as  I  said,  vartue's  a  deal  in  the  constitution.  Would 


EUGENE     ARAM.  22J 

not  ask  what  a  lassie's  mind  be,  nor  what  her  eddycation  ;  but 
see  what  her  habits  be,  that's  all, — habits  and  constitution  all 
one, — play  into  one  another's  hands." 

"And  what  sort  of  signs,  Bunting,  would  you  mostly  esteem 
in  a  lady  ?" 

"  First  place,  sir,  woman  I'd  marry  must  not  mope  when 
alone  !  must  be  able  to  'muse  herself  ;  must  be  easily  'mused. 
That's  a  great  sign,  sir,  of  an  innocent  mind,  to  be  tickled 
with  straws.  Besides,  employment  keeps  'em  out  of  harm's 
way.  Second  place,  should  obsarve,  if  she  was  very  fond  of 
places,  your  honor — sorry  to  move — that's  a  sure  sign  she 
won't  tire  easily  ;  but  that  if  she  like  you  now  from  fancy,  she'll 
like  you  by  and  by  from  custom.  Thirdly,  your  honor,  she 
should  not  be  avarse  to  dress ;  a  leaning  that  way  shows  she 
has  a  desire  to  please  :  people  who  don't  care  about  pleasing, 
always  sullen.  Fourthly,  she  must  bear  to  be  crossed  !  I'd  be 
quite  sure  that  she  might  be  contradicted,  without  mumping 
or  storming  ;  'cause  then,  you  knows,  your  honor,  if  she  wanted 
anything  expensive,  need  not  give  it — augh  !  Fifthly,  must 
not  set  up  for  a  saint,  your  honor  ;  they  pye-house  she-creturs 
always  thinks  themsels  so  much  better  nor  we  men  ;  don't  un- 
derstand our  language  and  ways,  your  honor  :  they  wants  us 
not  only  to  belave,  but  to  tremble — bother  !  " 

"  I  like  your  description  well  enough,  on  the  whole,"  said 
Walter  ;  "  and  when  I  look  out  for  a  wife  I  shall  come  to  you 
for  advice." 

"  Your  honor  may  have  it  already — Miss  Ellinor's  jist  the 
thing." 

Walter  turned  away  his  head,  and  told  Bunting,  with  great 
show  of  indignation,  not  to  be  a  fool. 

The  corporal,  who  was  not  quite  certain  of  his  ground  here, 
but  who  knew  that  Madeline,  at  all  events,  was  going  to  be 
married  to  Aram,  and  deemed  it,  therefore,  quite  useless  to 
waste  any  praise  upon  her,  thought  that  a  few  random  shots  of 
eulogium  were  worth  throwing  away  on  a  chance,  and  conse- 
quently continued  : 

"Augh,  your  honor — 'tis  not  cause  I  have  eyes,  that  I  be's  a 
fool.  Miss  Eilinor  and  your  honor  be  only  cousins,  to  be 
sure ;  but  more  like  brother  and  sister,  nor  anything  else. 
Howsomever,  she's  a  rare  cretur,  whoever  gets  her  ;  has  a  face 
that  puts  one  in  good-humor  with  the  world,  if  one  sees  it  first 
thing  in  the  morning  ;  'tis  as  good  as  the  sun  in  July — augh  ! 
But,  as  I  was  saying,  your  honor,  'bout  the  women  creturs  in 
general — " 


£28  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"  Enough  of  them,  Bunting  ;  let  us  suppose  you  have  been 
so  fortunate  as  to  find  one  to  suit  you  ;  how  would  you  woo 
her?  Of  course  there  are  certain  secrets  of  courtship,  which 
you  will  not  hesitate  to  impart  to  one  who,  like  me,  wants  such 
assistance  from  art,  much  more  than  you  can  do,  who  are  so 
bountifully  favored  bynature." 

"As  to  nature,"  replied  the  corporal,  with  considerable 
modesty,  for  he  never  disputed  the  truth  of  the  compliment, 
"  'tis  not  'cause  a  man  be  six  feet  without's  shoes  that  he's  any 
nearer  to  lady's  heart.  Sir,  I  will  own  to  you,  howsomever,  it 
makes  'gainst  your  honor  and  myself,  for  that  matter — 
that  don't  think  one  is  a  bit  more  lucky  with  the  ladies 
for  being  so  handsome  !  'Tis  all  very  well  with  them  ere  will- 
ing ones,  your  honor — caught  at  a  glance  ;  but  as  for  the  better 
sort,  one's  beauty's  all  bother  !  Why,  sir,  when  we  see  some  of 
the  most  fortunatest  men  among  she-creturs — what  poor  little 
minnikens  they  be  !  One's  a  dwarf,  another  knock-kneed,  a 
third  squints,  and  a  fourth  might  be  shown  for  a //ape  !  Neither, 
sir,  is  it  your  soft,  insinivating,  die-away  youths,  as  seem  at 
first  so  seductive  ;  they  do  very  well  for  lovers,  your  honor-, 
but  then  it's  always — rejected  ones  !  Neither,  your  honor, 
does  the  art  of  succeeding  with  the  ladies  'quire  all  those  finni- 
ken  nimini-pinimis,  flourishes,  and  maxims,  and  saws,  which  the 
colonel,  my  old  master,  and  the  great  gentlefolks,  as  be  know- 
ing, call  the  art  of  love — baugh  !  The  whole  science,  sir,  con- 
sists in  these  two  rules — 'Ax  soon,  and  ax  often.'" 

"There  seems  no  great  difficulty  in  them,  Bunting." 

"  Not  to  us  who  has  gumption,  sir  ;  but  then  there  is  summut 
in  the  manner  of  axing  ;  one  can't  be  too  hot — can't  flatter  too 
much — and,  above  all,  one  must  never  take  a  refusal.  There, 
sir,  now — if  you  takes  my  advice — may  break  the  peace  of  all 
the  husbands  in  Lunnun — bother — whaugh  !  " 

"  My  uncle  little  knows  what  a  praiseworthy  tutor  he  had 
secured  me  in  you,  Bunting,"  said  Walter,  laughing  ;  "  and 
now,  while  the  road  is  so  good,  let  us  make  the  most  of  it." 

As  they  had  set  out  late  in  the  day,  and  the  corporal  was 
fearful  of  another  attack  from  a  hedge,  he  resolved  that,  about 
evening,  one  of  the  horses  should  be  seized  with  a  sudden 
lameness  (which  he  effected  by  slyly  inserting  a  stone  between 
the  shoe  and  the  hoof),  that  required  immediate  attention  and 
a  night's  rest  ;  so  that  it  was  not  till  the  early  noon  of  the  next 
day  that  our  travellers  entered  the  village  in  which  Mr.  Jonas 
Elmore  resided. 

It  was  a  soft  tranquil  day,  though  one  of  the  very  last  in 


EUGENE     ARAM.  229 

October  ;  for  the  reader  will  remember  that  time  had  not  stood 
still  during  Walter's  submission  to  the  care  of  Mr.  Pertinax 
Fillgrave,  and  his  subsequent  journey  and  researches. 

The  sunlight  rested  on  a  broad  pain  of  green  heath,  covered 
with  furze,  and  around  it  were  scattered  the  cottages  and  farm- 
houses of  the  little  village.  On  the  other  side,  as  Walter  de- 
scended the  gentle  hill  that  led  into  this  remote  hamlet,  wide 
and  flat  meadows,  interspersed  with  several  fresh  and  shaded 
ponds,  stretched  away  toward  a  belt  of  rich  woodland  gorgeous 
with  the  melancholy  pomp  by  which  the  "  regal  year  "  seeks  to 
veil  its  decay.  Among  these  meadows  you  might  now  see 
groups  CM'  cattle  quietly  grazing,  or  standing  half  hid  in  the  still 
and  sheltered  pools.  Still  farther,  crossing  to  the  woods,  a  soli- 
tary sportsman  walked  careless  on,  surrounded  by  some  half 
a  dozen  spaniels,  and  the  shrill,  small  tongue  of  one  younger 
straggler  of  the  canine  crew,  who  had  broken  indecorously 
from  the  rest,  and  already  entered  the  wood,  might  be  just 
heard,  softened  down  by  the  distance,  into  a  wild,  cheery  sound, 
that  animated,  without  disturbing,  the  serenity  of  the  scene. 

"After  all,"  said  Walter  aloud,  "the  scholar  was  right — there 
is  nothing  like  the  country  ! 

'  Oh,  happiness  of  sweet  retired  content, 
To  be  at  once  secure  and  innocent  ! ' " 

"Be  them  verses  in  the  Psalms,  sir?"  said  the  corporal,  who 
was  close  behind. 

"No,  Bunting;  but  they  were  written  by  one  who, if  I  recol- 
lect right,  set  the  Psalms  to  verse.*  I  hope  they  meet  with 
your  approbation  ?  " 

"Indeed,  sir,  and  no — since  they  ben't  in  the  Psalms." 

"And  why,  Mr.  Critic?" 

"  'Cause  what's  the  use  of  security,  if  one's  innocent,  and 
does  not  mean  to  take  advantage  of  it  ? — baugh  !  One  does 
not  lock  the  door  for  nothing,  your  honor  !  " 

"You  shall  enlarge  on  that  honest  doctrine  of  yours  another 
time  ;  meanwhile,  call  that  shepherd,  and  ask  the  way  to  Mr. 
Elmore's." 

The  corporal  obeyed,  and  found  that  a  clump  of  trees,  at  the 
farther  corner  of  the  waste  land,  was  the  grove  that  surrounded 
Mr.  Elmore's  house :  a  short  canter  across  the  heath  brought 
them  to  a  white  gate,  and  having  passed  this,  a  comfortable 
brick  mansion,  of  moderate  size,  stood  before  them. 

*  Denharo. 


EUGENE     ARAM. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  SCHOLAR,  BUT  OF  A  DIFFERENT  MOULD  FROM  THE  STUDENT 
OF  GRASSDALE. — NEW  PARTICULARS  CONCERNING  GEOFFREY 
LESTER. — THE  JOURNEY  RECOMMENCED. 

"      ...     Insenuitque 
Libris."  * — HORAT. 

"  Volat,  ambiguis 
Mobilis  alls,  Hora."f — SENECA. 

UPON  inquiring  for  Mr.  Elmore,  Walter  was  shown  into  a 
handsome  library,  that  appeared  well  stocked  with  books,  of 
that  good,  old-fashioned  size  and  solidity,  which  are  now  fast 
passing  from  the  world,  or  at  least  shrinkinginto  old  shops  and 
public  collections.  The  time  may  come,  when  the  mouldering 
remains  of  a  folio  will  attract  as  much  philosophical  astonish- 
ment as  the  bones  of  the  mammoth.  For  behold,  the  deluge 
of  writers  hath  produced  a  new  world  of  small  octavo  !  and  in 
the  next  generation,  thanks  to  the  popular  libraries,  we  shall 
only  vibrate  between  the  duodecimo  and  the  diamond  edition. 
Nay,  we  foresee  the  time  when  a  very  handsome  collection  may 
be  carried  about  in  one's  waistcoat-pocket,  and  a  whole  library 
of  the  British  Classics  be  neatly  arranged  in  a  well-compacted 
snuff-box. 

In  a  few  minutes  Mr.  Elmore  made  his  appearance  :  he  was 
a  short,  well-built  man,  about  the  age  of  fifty.  Contrary  to 
the  established  mode,  he  wore  no  wig,  and  was  very  bald  ;  ex- 
cept at  the  sides  of  the  head,  and  a  little  circular  island  of  hair 
in  the  centre.  But  this  defect  was  rendered  the  less  visible  by 
a  profusion  of  powder.  He  was  dressed  with  evident  care  and 
precision  ;  a  snuff -colored  coat  was  adorned  with  a  respectable 
profusion  of  gold  lace  ;  his  breeches  were  of  plum-colored 
satin  ;  his  salmon-colored  stockings,  scrupulously  drawn  up, 
displayed  a  very  handsome  calf  ;  and  a  pair  of  steel  buckles, 
in  his  high-heeled  and  square-toed  shoes,  were  polished  into  a 
lustre  which  almost  rivalled  the  splendor  of  diamonds.  Mr. 
Jonas  Elmore  was  a  beau,  a  wit,  and  a  scholar  of  the  old  school. 
He  abounded  in  jests,  in  quotations,  in  smart  sayings,  and  per- 
tinent anecdotes  ;  but,  withal,  his  classical  learning  (out  of  the 
classics  he  knew  little  enough)  was  at  once  elegant,  but  weari- 
some ;  pedantic,  but  profound. 

To  this  gentleman  Walter  presented  a  letter  of  introduction 

t  Time  flies,  still  moving  on  uncertain  wing.  *  And  he  hath  grown  old  in  books. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  231 

which  he  had  obtained  from  a  distinguished  clergyman  in  York. 
Mr.  Elmore  received  it  with  a  profound  salutation  : 

"  Aha,  from  my  friend,  Dr.  Hebraist,"  said  he,  glancing  at 
the  seal  :  "  a  most  worthy  man,  and  a  ripe  scholar.  I  presume 
at  once,  sir,  from  his  introduction,  that  you  yourself  have  culti- 
vated the  literas  humaniorcs.  Pray  sit  down — ay,  I  see,  you 
take  up  a  book — an  excellent  symptom  ;  it  gives  me  an  im- 
mediate insight  into  your  character.  But  you  have  chanced, 
sir,  on  light  reading — one  of  the  Greek  novels,  I  think  :  you 
must  not  judge  of  my  studies  by  such  a  specimen." 

"  Nevertheless,  sir,  it  does  not  seem  to  my  unskilful  eye  very 
easy  Greek." 

"  Pretty  well,  sir ;  barbarous,  but  amusing  ;  pray,  continue 
it.  The  triumphal  entry  of  Paulus  Emilius  is  not  ill  told.  I 
confess,  that  I  think  novels  might  be  made  much  higher  works 
than  they  have  been  yet.  Doubtless,  you  remember  what 
Aristotle  says  concerning  painters  and  sculptors,  'that  they 
teach  and  recommend  virtue  in  a  more  efficacious  and  power- 
ful manner  than  philosophers  by  their  dry  precepts,  and  are 
more  capable  of  amending  the  vicious,  than  the  best  moral 
lessons  without  such  aid.'  But  how  much  more,  sir,  can  a  good 
novelist  do  this,  than  the  best  sculptor  or  painter  in  the  world  ! 
Every  one  can  be  charmed  by  a  fine  novel,  few  by  a  fine  paint- 
ing. '  Docti  rationtm  artis  intelltgunt,  indocti  voluptatem. '*  A 
happy  sentence  that  in  Quinctilian,  sir,  is  it  not?  But,  bless 
me,  I  am  forgetting  the  letter  of  my  good  friend,  Dr.  Hebraist. 
The  charms  of  your  conversation  carry  me  away.  And,  indeed, 
I  have  seldom  the  happiness  to  meet  a  gentleman  so  well- 
informed  as  yourself.  I  confess,  sir,  I  confess  that  I  still  retain 
the  tastes  of  my  boyhood  ;  the  Muses  cradled  my  childhood, 
they  now  smooth  the  pillow  on  my  footstool.  Quern  /;/,  Melpom- 
tne,  etc.  You  are  not  yet  subject  to  gout,  dira  podagra.  By 
the  way,  how  is  the  worthy  doctor,  since  his  attack?  Ah,  see 
now,  if  you  have  not  still,  by  your  delightful  converse, 
kept  me  from  his  .letter — yet,  positively,  I  need  no  introduction 
to  you  :  Apollo  has  already  presented  you  to  me.-  And  as  for 
the  Doctor's  letter,  I  will  read  it  after  dinner;  for  as  Seneca — " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  a  thousand  times,  sir,"  said  Walter,  who 
began  to  despair  of  ever  coming  to  the  matter,  which  seemed 
lost  sight  of  beneath  this  battery  of  erudition,  "  but  you  will 
find  by  Dr.  Hebraist's  letter,  that  it  is  only  on  business  of  the 
utmost  importance  that  I  have  presumed  to  break  in  upon  the 
learned  leisure  of  Mr.  Jonas  Elmore." 

*  The  learned  understand   the  reason  of  art,  the  unlearned  the  pleasure. 


232  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"Business!"  replied  Mr.  Elmore,  producing  his  spectacles, 
and  deliberately  placing  them  athwart  his  nose, 

'  His  mane  edictum,  post  prandia  Callirhoen,'  etc. 

Business  in  the  morning,  and  the  ladies  after  dinner.  Well, 
sir,  I  will  yield  to  you  in  the  one,  and  you  must  yield  to  me  in 
the  other  •.  I  will  open  the  letter,  and  you  shall  dine  here,  and 
be  introduced  to  Mrs.  Elmore.  What  is  your  opinion  of  the 
modern  method  of  folding  letters?  1 — but  I  see  you  aie 
impatient."  Here  Mr.  Elmore  at  length  broke  the  seal ;  and 
to  Walter's  great  joy,  fairly  read  the  contents  within. 

"  Oh  !  I  see,  1  see  ! "  he  said,  refolding  the  epistle,  and 
placing  it  in  his  pocket-book  ;  "my  friend,  Dr.  Hebraist,  says 
you  are  anxious  to  be  informed  whether  Mr.  Clarke  ever 
received  the  legacy  of  my  poor  cousin,  Colonel  Elmore ;  and 
if  so,  any  tidings  I  can  give  you  of  Mr.  Clarke  himself,  or  any 
clue  to  discover  him,  will  be  highly  acceptable.  I  gather,  sir, 
from  my  friend's  letter,  that  this  is  the  substance  of  your  busi- 
ness with  me,  caput  negotii ;  although,  like  Timanthes,  the 
painter,  he  leaves  more  to  be  understood  than  is  described, 
'  inielligitur  plus  quam  pingiturj  as  Pliny  has  it." 

"  Sir,"  said  Walter,  drawing  his  chair  close  to  Mr.  Elmore, 
and  his  anxiety  forcing  itself  to  his  countenance,  "that  is 
indeed  the  substance  of  my  business  with  you  ;  and  so  import- 
ant will  be  any  information  you  can  give  me,  that  I  shall  esteem 
it  a—" 

"  Not  a  very  great  favor,  eh  ? — not  very  great !  " 

"Yes,  indeed,  a  very  great  obligation." 

"  I  hope  not,  sir  ;  for  what  says  Tacitus — that  profound 
reader  of  the  human  heart? — '  beneficia  eo  usque  lata  sunf,  etc.; 
favors  easily  repaid  beget  affection — favors  beyond  return  engen- 
der hatred.  But,  sir,  a  truce  to  trifling"  ;  and  here  Mr.  Elmore 
composed  his  countenance,  and  changed, — which  he  could  do 
at  will,  so  that  the  change  was  not  expected  to  last  long — the 
pedant  for  the  man  of  business. 

"  Mr.  Clarke  did  receive  his  legacy:  the  lease  of  the  house  at 
Knaresborough  was  also  sold  by  his  desire,  and  produced  the 
sum  of  seven  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  ;  which  being  added  to 
the  farther  sum  of  a  thousand  pounds,  which  was  bequeathed 
to  him,  amounted  to  seventeen  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  It 
so  happened  that  my  cousin  had  possessed  some  very  valuable 
jewels,  which  were  bequeathed  to  myself.  I,  sir,  studious,  and 
a  cultivator  of  the  Muse,  had  no  love  and  no  use  for  these 
baubles  ;  I  preferred  barbaric  geld  to  barbaric  pearl ;  and 


ARAM.  5J3 

knowing  that  Clarke  had  been  in  India,  whence  these  jewels  had 
been  brought,  I  showed  them  to  him  and  consulted  his  knowl- 
edge on  these  matters,  as  to  the  best  method  of  obtaining  a 
sale.  He  offered  to  purchase  them  of  me,  under  the  impression 
that  he  could  turn  them  to  a  profitable  speculation  in  London. 
Accordingly  we  came  to  terms  :  Isold  the  greater  part  of  them 
to  him  for  a  sum  a  little  exceeding  a  thousand  pounds.  He  was 
pleased  with  his  bargain,  and  came  to  borrow  the  rest  of  me  in 
order  to  look  at  them  more  considerately  at  home,  and  deter- 
mine whether  or  not  he  should  buy  them  also.  Well,  sir  (but 
here  comes  the  remarkable  part  of  the  story),  about  three  days 
after  this  last  event,  Mr.  Clarke  and  my  jewels  both  disap- 
peared in  rather  a  strange  and  abrupt  manner.  In  the  middle 
of  the  night  he  left  his  lodging  at  Knaresborough  and  never 
returned  ;  neither  himself  nor  my  jewels  were  ever  heard  of 
more  ! " 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  exclaimed  Walter,  greatly  agitated  ; 
"what  was  supposed  to  be  the  cause  of  his  disappearance?" 

"  That,"  replied  Elmore,  "  was  never  positively  traced.  It  ex- 
cited great  surprise  and  great  conjecture  at  the  time.  Adver- 
tisements and  handbills  were  circulated  throughout  the  coun- 
try, but  in  vain.  Mr.  Clarke  was  evidently  a  man  of  eccentric 
habits,  of  a  hasty  temper,  and  a  wandering  manner  of  life  ;  yet 
it  is  scarcely  probable  that  he  took  this  sudden  manner  of 
leaving  the  country,  either  from  whim  or  some  secret  but 
honest  motive  never  divulged.  The  fact  is,  that  he  owed  a  few 
debts  in  the  town — that  he  had  my  jewels  in  his  possession,  and 
as  (pardon  me  for  saying  this,  since  you  take  an  inter- 
est in  him)  his  connections  were  entirely  unknown  in  these 
parts,  and  his  character  not  very  highly  estimated  (whether 
from  his  manner,  or  his  conversation,  or  some  undefined  and 
vague  rumors,  I  cannot  say),  it  was  considered  by  no  means 
improbable  that  he  had  decamped  with  his  property  in  this 
sudden  manner  in  order  to  save  himself  that  trouble  of  settling 
accounts  which  a  more  seemly  and  public  method  of  departure 
might  have  rendered  necessary.  A  man  of  the  name  of  House- 
man, with  whom  he  was  acquainted  (a  resident  in  Knaresbor- 
borough),  declared  that  Clarke  had  borrowed  rather  a  consider- 
able sum  from  him,  and  did  not  scruple  openly  to  accuse  him 
of  the  evident  design  to  avoid  repayment.  A  few  more  dark 
but  utterly  groundless  conjectures  were  afloat  ;  and  since  the 
closest  search,  the  minutest  inquiry,  was  employed  without  any 
result,  the  supposition  that  he  might  have  been  robbed  and 
murdered  was  strongly  entertained  for  some  time  ;  but  as  his 


234  EUGENE     ARAM. 

body  was  never  found,  nor  suspicion  directed  against  any  par- 
ticular person,  these  conjectures  insensibly  died  away  ;  and  be- 
ing so  complete  a  stranger  to  these  parts,  the  very  circumstance 
of  his  disappearance  was  not  likely  to  occupy,  for  very  long, 
the  attention  of  that  old  gossip,  the  Public,  who,  even  in  the 
remotest  parts,  has  a  thousand  topics  to  fill  up  her  time  and 
talk.  And  now,  sir,  I  think  you  know  as  much  of  the  particu- 
lars of  the  case  as  any  one  in  these  parts  can  inform  you." 

We  may  imagine  the  various  sensations  which  this  unsatis- 
factory intelligence  caused  in  the  adventurous  son  of  the  lost 
wanderer.  He  continued  to  throw  out  additional  guesses,  and 
to  make  farther  inquiries  concerning  a  tale  which  seemed  to 
him  so  mysterious,  but  without  effect  ;  and  he  had  the  mortifica- 
tion to  perceive  that  the  shrewd  Jonas  was,  in  his  own  mind, 
fully  convinced  that  the  permanent  disappearance  of  Clarke 
was  accounted  for  only  by  the  most  dishonest  motives. 

"  And,"  added  Elmore,  "  I  am  confirmed  in  this  belief  by 
discovering  afterward,  from  a  tradesman  in  York  who  had  seen 
my  cousin's  jewels,  that  those  I  had  trusted  to  Mr.  Clarke's 
hands  were  more  valuable  than  I  had  imagined  them,  and 
therefore  it  was  probably  worth  his  while  to  make  off  with 
them  as  quietly  as  possible.  He  went  on  foot,  leaving  his 
horse,  a  sorry  nag,  to  settle  with  me  and  the  other  claimants  : 

'  I,  pedes  quo  te  rapiunt  et  aurse  ! '  "  * 

"  Heavens  !  "  thought  Walter,  sinking  back  in  his  chair  sick- 
ened and  disheartened,  "  what  a  parent,  if  the  opinions  of  all 
men  who  knew  him  be  true,  do  I  thus  zealously  seek  to  re- 
cover ! " 

The  good-natured  Elmore,  perceiving  the  unwelcome  and 
painful  impression  his  account  had  produced  on  his  young 
guest,  now  exerted  himself  to  remove,  or  at  least  to  lessen  it ; 
and,  turning  the  conversation  into  a  classical  channel,  which 
with  him  was  Lethe  to  all  cares,  he  soon  forgot  that  Clarke 
had  ever  existed,  in  expatiating  on  the  unappreciated  excel- 
lences of  Propertius,  who,  to  his  mind,  was  the  most  tender  of 
all  elegiac  poets,  solely  because  he  was  the  most  learned. 
Fortunately  this  vein  of  conversation,  however  tedious  to 
Walter,  preserved  him  from  the  necessity  of  rejoinder,  and  left 
him  to  the  quiet  enjoyment  of  his  own  gloomy  and  restless  re- 
flections. 

At  length  the  time  touched  upon  dinner ;  Elmore,  starting 
up,  adjourned  to  the  drawing-room,  in  order  to  present  the 

*  Go,  where  your  feet  and  fortune  take  you. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  235 

handsome  stranger  to  the  placens  uxor — the  pleasing  wife, 
whom,  in  passing  through  the  hall,  he  eulogized  with  an  amaz- 
ing felicity  of  diction. 

The  object  of  these  praises  was  a  tall,  meagre  lady,  in  a 
yellow  dress  carried  up  to  the  chin,  and  who  added  a  slight 
squint  to  the  charms  of  red  hair,  ill  concealed  by  powder,  and 
the  dignity  of  a  prodigiously  high  nose.  "  There  is  nothing, 
sir,"  said  Elmore, — "nothing,  believe  me,  like  matrimonial 
felicity.  Julia,  my  dear,  I  trust  the  chickens  will  not  be  over- 
done." 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Elmore,  I  cannot  tell ;  I  did  not  boil  them." 
"Sir,"  said  Elmore,  turning  to  his  guest,  "I  do  not  know 
whether  you  will  agree  with  me,  but  I  think  a  slight  tendency 
to  gourmandism  is  absolutely  necessary  to  complete  the  char- 
acter of  a  truly  classical  mind.  So  many  beautiful  touches  are 
there  in  the  ancient  poets — so  many  delicate  allusions  in  his- 
tory and  in  anecdote  relating  to  the  gratification  of  the  palate, 
that,  if  a  man  have  no  correspondent  sympathy  with  the  illus- 
trious epicures  of  old,  he  is  rendered  incapable  of  enjoying 
the  most  beautiful  passages  that — Come,  sir,  the  dinner  is 
served  : 

'  Nutrimus  lautis  mollissima  corpora  mensis.'  "  * 

As  they  crossed  the  hall  to  the  dining-room,  a  young  lady, 
whom  Elmore  hastily  announced  as  his  only  daughter,  ap- 
peared descending  the  stair,  having  evidently  retired  for  the 
purpose  of  rearranging  her  attire  for  the  conquest  of  the  stran- 
ger. There  was  something  in  Miss  Elmore  that  reminded  Walter 
of  Ellinor,  and,  as  the  likeness  struck  him,  he  felt,  by  the  sud- 
den and  involuntary  sigh  it  occasioned,  how  much  the  image 
of  his  cousin  had  lately  gained  ground  upon  his  heart. 

Nothing  of  any  note  occurred  during  dinner,  until  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  second  course,  when  Elmore,  throwing  him- 
self back  with  an  air  of  content,  which  signified  that  the  first 
edge  of  his  appetite  was  blunted,  observed  : 

"  Sir,  the  second  course  I  always  opine  to  be  the  more  digni- 
fied and  rational  part  of  a  repast : 

'  Quod  nunc  ratio  cst,  impetus  ante  fuit.'  "f 

"Ah  !  Mr.  Elmore,"  said  the  lady,  glancing  toward  a  brace  of 
very  fine  pigeons,  "  I  cannot  tell  you  how  vexed  I  am  at  a  mistake 
of  the  gardener's  ;  you  remember  my  poor  pet  pigeons,  so  at- 
tached to  each  other — would  not  mix  with  the  rest — quite  an 

*  We  nourish  softest  bodies  at  luxurious  banquets. 
t  That,  which  is  now  reason,  at  first  was  but  desire, 


236  EUGENE     ARAM. 

inseparable  friendship,  Mr.  Lester  ;  well,  they  were  killed,  by 
mistake,  for  a  couple  of  vulgar  pigeons.  Ah  !  I  could  not 
touch  a  bit  of  them  for  the  world." 

"  My  love,"  said  Elmore,  pausing  and  with  great  solemnity, 
"hear  how  beautiful  a  consolation  is  afforded  to  you  in  Valerius 
Maximus  :  '  Ubi  idemetmaximus  et  honestissimus  amor  est, 
aliquandopraestatmorte  jungi  quam  vita  distrahi  ! '  which,  being 
interpreted,  means  that  wherever,  as  in  the  case  of  your  pig- 
eons, a  thoroughly  high  and  sincere  affection  exists,  it  is 
sometimes  better  to  be  joined  in  death  than  divided  in  life. 
Give  me  half  the  fatter  one,  if  you  please,  Julia. 

"  Sir,"  said  Elmore,  when  the  ladies  withdrew,  "  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  pleased  I  am  to  meet  with  a  gentleman  so  deeply  im- 
bued with  classic  lore.  I  remember,  several  years  ago,  before 
my  poor  cousin  died,  it  was  my  lot,  when  I  visited  him  at 
Knaresborough,  to  hold  some  delightful  conversations  on 
learned  matters  with  a  very  rising  young  scholar  who  then  resided 
at  Knaresborough, — Eugene  Aram.  Conversations  as  difficult 
to  obtain  as  delightful  to  remember,  for  he  was  exceedingly  re- 
served." 

"  Aram  !  "  repeated  Walter. 

"  What !  you  know  him  then  ? — and  where  does  he  live 
now  ? " 

"  In ,  very  near  my  uncle's  residence.     He  is  certainly 

a  remarkable  man." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  he  promised  to  become  so.  At  the  time  I  re- 
fer to,  he  was  poor  to  penury,  and  haughty  as  poor  ;  but  it  was 
wonderful  to  note  the  iron  energy  with  which  he  pursued  his 
progess  to  learning.  Never  did  I  see  a  youth — at  that  time  he 
was  no  more — so  devoted  to  knowledge  for  itself. 
'  Doctrinse  pretium  triste  magister  habet."  * 

"  Methinks,"  added  Elmore,  "  I  can  see  him  now,  stealing 
away  from  the  haunts  of  men, 

1  With  even  step  and  musing  gait/ 

across  the  quiet  fields,  or  into  the  woods,  whence  he  was  certain 
not  to  reappear  till  nightfall.  Ah  !  he  was  a  strange  and  soli- 
tary being,  but  full  of  genius,  and  promise  of  bright  things 
hereafter.  I  have  often  heard  since  of  his  fame  as  a  scholar, 
but  could  never  learn  where  he  lived,  or  what  was  now  his 
mode  of  life.  Is  he  yet  married  ? " 

"  Not  yet,  I  believe  ;  but  he  is  not  now  so  absolutely  poor  as 

*  The  master  has  but  sorry  remuneration  for  his  teaching. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  Ztf 

you  describe  him  to  have  been  then,  though  certainly  far  from 
rich." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  remember  that  he  received  a  legacy  from  a  re- 
lation shortly  before  he  left  Knaresborough.  He  had  very 
delicate  health  at  that  time  ;  has  he  grown  stronger  with  in- 
creasing years  ?  " 

"  He  does  not  complain  of  ill  health.  And  pray,  was  he  then 
of  the  same  austere  and  blameless  habits  of  life  that  he  now 
professes  ?  " 

"Nothing  could  be  so  faultless  as  his  character  appeared  ; 
the  passions  of  youth  (ah  !  /  was  a  wild  fellow  at  his  age) — 
never  seemed  to  venture  near  one — 

'  Quern  casto  erudit  doeta  Minerva  sinu.'* 

Well,  I  am  surprised  he  has  not  married.  We  scholars,  sir,  fall 
in  love  with  abstractions,  and  fancy  the  first  woman  we  see 
is — Sir,  let  us  drink  the  ladies." 

The  next  day  Walter,  having  resolved  to  set  out  for  Knares- 
borough, directed  his  course  toward  that  town  ;  he  thought  it  yet 
possible  that  he  might  by  strict  personal  inquiry  continue  the  clue 
that  Elmore's  account  had,  to  present  appearance,  broken.  The 
pursuit  in  which  he  was  engaged,  combined,  perhaps,  with  the 
early  disappointment  to  his  affections,  had  given  a  grave  and 
solemn  tone  to  a  mind  naturally  ardent  and  elastic.  His  char- 
acter acquired  an  earnestness  and  a  dignity  from  late  events ; 
and  all  that  once  had  been  hope  within  him  deepened  into 
thought.  As  now,  on  a  gloomy  and  clouded  day,  he  pursued 
his  course  along  a  bleak  and  melancholy  road  his  mind  was 
filled  with  that  dark  presentiment — that  shadow  from  the  com- 
ing event,  which  superstition  believes  the  herald  of  the  more 
tragic  discoveries  or  the  more  fearful  incidents  of  life  :  he  felt 
steeled  and  prepared  for  some  dread  a'Jnodment,  to  a  journey 
to  which  the  hand  of  Providence  seemed  to  conduct  his  steps  ; 
and  he  looked  on  the  shroud  that  Time  casts  over  all  beyond 
the  present  moment  with  the  same  intense  and  painful  resolve 
with  which,  in  the  tragic  representations  of  life,  we  await  the 
drawing  up  of  the  curtain  before  the  last  act,  which  contains 
the  catastrophe,  that,  while  we  long,  we  half  shudder  to  behold. 

Meanwhile,  in  following  the  adventures  of  Walter  Lester,  we 
have  greatly  outstripped  the  progress  of  events  at  Grassdale^ 
and  thither  we  now  return. 

*  Whom  wise  Minerva  taught  with  bosom  chaste. 


EUGENE      ARAM. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ARAM'S  DEPARTURE. — MADELINE. — EXAGGERATION  OF  SENTI- 
MENT NATURAL  IN  LOVE. — MADELINE  S  LETTER. — WALTER'S. — 
THE  WALK. — TWO  VERY  DIFFERENT  PERSONS,  YET  BOTH  IN- 
MATES OF  THE  SAME  COUNTRY  VILLAGE. — THE  HUMORS  OF 
LIFE,  AND  ITS  DARK  PASSIONS,  ARE  FOUND  IN  JUXTAPOSITION 
EVERYWHERE. 

"  Her  thoughts  as  pure  as  the  chaste  morning's  breath, 
When  from  the  Night's  cold  arms  it  creeps  away, 
Were  clothed  in  words." — Detraction  Execrated,  by  SIR  J.  SUCKLING. 

"  Urticae  proxima  ssepe  rosa  est."  * — OVID. 

"  You  positively  leave  us  then  to-day,  Eugene  ? "  said  the 
squire. 

"Indeed,"  answered  Aram,  "I  hear  from  my  creditor  (now 
no  longer  so,  thanks  to  you),  that  my  relation  is  so  dangerously 
ill,  that,  if  I  have  any  wish  to  see  her  alive,  I  have  not  an  hour 
to  lose.  It  is  the  last  surviving  relative  I  have  in  the  world." 

"  I  can  say  no  more,  then,"  rejoined  the  squire,  shrugging 
his  shoulders.  "  When  do  you  expect  to  return  ?  " 

"  At  least,  before  the  day  fixed  for  the  wedding,"  answered 
Aram,  with  a  grave  and  melancholy  smile. 

"  Well,  can  you  find  time,  think  you,  to  call  at  the  lodging  in 
which  my  nephew  proposed  to  take  up  his  abode, — my  old  lodg- 
ing,— I  will  give  you  the  address, — and  inquire  if  Walter  has 
been  heard  of  there?  I  confess  that  I  feel  considerable  alarm 
on  his  account.  Since  that  short  and  hurried  letter  which  I 
read  to  you,  I  have  heard  nothing  of  him." 

"  You  may  rely  on  my  seeing  him  if  in  London,  and 
faithfully  reporting  to  you  all  that  I  can  learn  toward  remov- 
ing your  anxiety." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it  ;  no  heart  is  so  kind  as  yours,  Eugene. 
You  will  not  depart  without  receiving  the  additional  sum  you 
are  entitled  to  claim  from  me,  since  you  think  it  may  be  useful 
to  you  in  London,  should  you  find  a  favorable  opportunity  of 
increasing  your  annuity.  And  now  I  will  no  longer  detain  you 
from  taking  your  leave  of  Madeline." 

The  plausible  story  which  Aram  had  invented,  of  the  illness 
and  approaching  death  of  his  last  living  relation,  was  readily 
believed  by  the  simple  family  to  whom  it  was  told  ;  and  Made- 

*  The  rose  is  often  nearest  to  the  nettle. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  239 

line  herself  checked  her  tears,  that  she  might  not,  for  his  sake, 
sadden  a  departure  that  seemed  inevitable.  Aram  accord- 
ingly repaired  to  London  that  day  ;  the  one  that  followed  the 
night  which  witnessed  his  fearful  visit  to  The  Devil's  Crag. 

It  is  precisely  at  this  part  of  my  history  that  I  love  to  pause 
for  a  moment ;  a  sort  of  breathing  interval  between  the  cloud 
that  has  been  long  gathering,  and  the  storm  that  is  about  to 
burst.  And  this  interval  is  not  without  its  fleeting  gleam  of 
quiet  and  holy  sunshine. 

It  was  Madeline's  first  absence  from  her  lover  since  their 
vows  had  plighted  them  to  each  other  ;  and  that  first  absence, 
when  softened  by  so  many  hopes  as  smiled  upon  her,  is  per- 
haps one  of  the  most  touching  passages  in  the  history  of  a 
woman's  love.  It  is  marvellous  how  many  things,  unheeded 
before,  suddenly  become  dear.  She  then  feels  what  a  power  of 
consecration  there  was  in  the  mere  presence  of  the  one  be- 
loved ;  the  spot  he  touched,  the  book  he  read,  have  become  a 
part  of  him — are  no  longer  inanimate — are  inspired,  and  have 
a  being  and  a  voice.  And  the  heart,  too,  soothed  in  discover- 
ing so  many  new  treasures,  and  opening  so  delightful  a  world 
of  memory,  is  not  yet  acquainted  with  that  weariness — that 
sense  of  exhaustion  and  solitude,  which  are  the  true  pains  of 
absence,  and  belong  to  the  absence,  not  of  hope  but  regret. 

"  You  are  cheerful,  dear  Madeline,"  said  Ellinor,  "  though 
you  did  not  think  it  possible,  and  he  not  here  !  " 

"  I  am  occupied,"  replied  Madeline,  "  in  discovering  how 
much  I  loved  him." 

We  do  wrong  when  we  censure  a  certain  exaggeration  in  the 
sentiments  of  those  who  love.  True  passion  is  necessarily 
heightened  by  its  very  ardor  to  an  elevation  that  seems  extrav- 
agant only  to  those  who  cannot  feel  it.  The  lofty  language  of 
a  hero  is  a  part  of  his  character ;  without  that  largeness  of  idea 
he  had  not  been  a  hero.  With  love,  it  is  the  same  as  with 
glory:  what  common  minds  would  call  natural  in  sentiment, 
merely  because  it  is  homely,  is  not  natural,  except  to  tamed 
affections.  That  is  a  very  poor,  nay,  a  very  coarse,  love,  in 
which  the  imagination  makes  not  the  greater  part.  And  the 
Frenchman,  who  censured  the  love  of  his  mistress  because  it 
was  so  mixed  with  the  imagination,  quarrelled  with  the  body 
for  the  soul  which  inspired  and  preserved  it. 

Yet  we  do  not  say  that  Madeline  was  so  possessed  by  the 
confidence  of  her  love,  that  she  did  not  admit  the  intrusion  of 
a  single  doubt  or  fear.  When  she  recalled  the  frequent  gloom 
and  moody  fitfulness  of  her  lover — his  strange  and  mysterious 


240  EUGENE     ARAM. 

communings  with  self — the  sorrow  which,  at  times,  as  on  that 
Sabbath  eve  when  he  wept  upon  her  bosom,  appeared  suddenly 
to  come  upon  a  nature  so  calm  and  stately,  and  without  a  visible 
cause  ;  when  she  recalled  all  these  symptoms  of  a  heart  not 
now  at  rest,  it  was  not  possible  for  her  to  reject  altogether  a 
certain  vague  and  dreary  apprehension.  Nor  did  she  herself, 
although  to  Ellinor  she  so  affected,  ascribe  this  cloudiness  and 
caprice  of  mood  merely  to  the  result  of  a  solitary  and  medita- 
tive life  ;  she  attributed  them  to  the  influence  of  an  early  grief, 
perhaps  linked  with  the  affections,  and  did  not  doubt  but  that 
one  day  or  another  she  should  learn  the  secret.  As  for  re- 
morse— the  memory  of  any  former  sin, — a  life  so  austerely 
blameless,  a  disposition  so  prompt  to  the  activity  of  good,  and 
so  enamoured  of  its  beauty — a  mind  so  cultivated,  a  temper  so 
gentle,  and  a  heart  so  easily  moved — all  would  have  forbidden, 
to  natures  far  more  suspicious  than  Madeline's,  the  conception 
of  such  a  thought.  And  so,  with  a  patient  gladness,  though 
not  without  some  mixture  of  anxiety,  she  suffered  "herself  to 
glide  onward  to  a  future  which,  come  cloud,  come  shine,  was, 
she  believed  at  least,  to  be  shared  with  him. 

On  looking  over  the  various  papers  from  which  I  have  woven 
this  tale,  I  find  a  letter  from  Madeline  to  Aram,  dated  at  this 
time.  The  characters,  traced  in  the  delicate  and  fair  Italian 
hand  coveted  at  that  period,  are  fading,  and  in  one  part 
wholly  obliterated  by  time  ;  but  there  seems  to  me  so  much  of 
what  is  genuine  in  the  heart's  beautiful  romance  in  this  effusion, 
that  I  will  lay  it  before  the  reader  without  adding  or  altering  a 
word  : 

"  Thank  you — thank  you,  dearest  Eugene  !  I  have  received, 
then,  the  first  letter  you  ever  wrote  me.  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
strange  it  seemed  to  me,  and  how  agitated  I  felt,  on  seeing  it; 
more  so,  I  think,  than  if  it  had  been  yourself  who  had  returned. 
However,  when  the  first  delight  of  reading  it  faded  away,  I 
found  that  it  had  not  made  me  so  happy  as  it  ought  to  have 
done — as  I  thought  at  first  it  had  done.  You  seem  sad  and 
melancholy  ;  a  certain  nameless  gloom  appears  to  me  to  hang 
over  your  whole  letter.  It  affects  my  spirits — why  I  know  not — 
and  my  tears  fall  even  while  I  read  the  assurances  of  your  un- 
alterable love  :  and  yet  this  assurance  your  Madeline — vain 
girl ! — never  for  a  moment  disbelieves.  I  have  often  read  and 
often  heard  of  the  distrust  and  jealousy  that  accompany  love ; 
but  I  think  that  such  a  love  must  be  a  vulgar  and  low  senti- 
ment. To  me  there  seems  a  religion  in  love,  and  its  very 
foundation  is  in  faith.  You  say,  dearest,  that  the  noise  and 


EUGENE     ARAM.  241 

stir  of  the  great  city  oppress  and  weary  you  even  more  than 
you  had  expected.  You  say  those  harsh  faces,  in  which  busi- 
ness, and  care,  and  avarice,  and  ambition,  write  their  linea- 
ments, are  wholly  unfamiliar  to  you  ;  you  turn  aside  to  avoid 
them  ;  you  wrap  yourself  up  in  your  solitary  feelings  of  aver- 
sion to  those  you  see,  and  you  call  upon  those  not  present — 
upon  your  Madeline  !  And  would  that  your  Madeline  were 
with  you  !  It  seems  to  me — perhaps  you  will  smile  when  I  say 
this — that  I  alone  can  understand  you — I  alone  can  read  your 
heart  and  your  emotions  ;  and,  oh  !  dearest  Eugene,  that  I 
could  read  also  enough  of  your  past  history  to  know  all  that 
has  cast  so  habitual  a  shadow  over  that  lofty  heart  and  that 
calm  and  profound  nature  !  You  smile  when  I  ask  you  ;  but 
sometimes  you  sigh, — and  the  sigh  pleases  and  soothes  me  bet- 
ter than  the  smile.  .  .  . 

"We  have  heard  nothing  more  of  Walter,  and  my  father 
continues  to  be  seriously  alarmed  about  him.  Your  account, 
too,  corroborates  that  alarm.  It  is  strange  that  he  has  not  yet 
visited  London,  and  that  you  can  obtain  no  clue  of  him.  He 
is  evidently  still  in  search  of  his  lost  parent  and  following 
some  obscure  and  uncertain  track.  Poor  Walter !  God  speed 
him  !  The  singular  fate  of  his  father,  and  the  many  conjec- 
tures respecting  him,  have,  I  believe,  preyed  on  Walter's  mind 
more  than  he  acknowledged.  Ellinor  found  a  paper  in  his 
closet,  where  we  had  occasion  to  search  the  other  day  for 
something  belonging  to  my  father,  which  was  scribbled  with 
all  the  various  fragments  of  guess  or  information  concerning 
my  uncle,  obtained  from  time  to  time,  and  interspersed  with 
some  remarks  by  Walter  himself  that  affected  me  strangely. 
It  seems  to  have  been,  from  early  childhood,  the  one  desire  of 
my  cousin  to  discover  his  father's  fate.  Perhaps  the  discovery 
may  be  already  made, — perhaps  my  long-lost  uncle  may  yet  be 
present  at  our  wedding. 

"You  ask  me,  Eugene,  if  I  still  pursue  my  botanical  re- 
searches? Sometimes  I  do;  but  the  flower  now  has  no 
fragrance,  and  the  herb  no  secret,  that  I  care  for ;  and 
astronomy,  which  you  had  just  begun  to  teach  me,  pleases  me 
more ;  the  flowers  charm  me  when  you  are  present ;  but  the 
stars  speak  to  me  of  you  in  absence.  Perhaps  it  would  not  be 
so,  had  I  loved  a  being  less  exalted  than  you.  Every  one, — 
even  my  father,  even  Ellinor,  smile  when  they  observe  how 
incessantly  I  think  of  you — how  utterly  you  have  become  all 
in  all  to  me.  I  could  not  tell  this  to  you,  though  I  write  it :  is 
it  not  strange  that  letters  should  be  more  faithful  than  the 


242  EUGENE     ARAM. 

tongue  ?  And  even  your  letter,  mournful  as  it  is,  seems  to  me 
kinder,  and  dearer,  and  more  full  of  yourself,  than,  with  all 
the  magic  of  your  language,  and  the  silver  sweetness  of  your 
voice,  your  spoken  words  are.  I  walked  by  your  house  yes- 
terday ;  the  windows  were  closed  ;  there  was  a  strange  air  of 
lifelessness  and  dejection  about  it.  Do  you  remember  the 
evening  in  which  I  first  entered  that  house?  Do  you — or, 
rather,  is  there  one  hour  in  which  it  is  not  present  to  you? 
For  me,  I  live  in  the  past, — it  is  the  present  (which  is  without 
you)  in  which  I  have  no  life.  I  passed  into  the  little  garden, 
that  with  your  own  hands  you  have  planted  for  me,  and  filled 
with  flowers.  Ellinor  was  with  me,  and  she  saw  my  lips  move 
She  asked  me  what  I  was  saying  to  myself.  I  would  not  tell 
her  ;  I  was  praying  for  you,  my  kind,  my  beloved  Eugene.  I 
was  praying  for  the  happiness  of  your  future  years, — pray- 
ing that  I  might  requite  your  love.  Whenever  I  feel  the 
most,  I  am  the  most  inclined  to  prayer.  Sorrow,  joy,  tender- 
ness, all  emotion,  lift  up  my  heart  to  God.  And  what  a 
delicious  overflow  of  the  heart  is  prayer?  When  I  am  with 
you — and  I  feel  that  you  love  me — my  happiness  would  be 
painful,  if  there  were  no  God  whom  I  might  bless  for  its 
excess.  Do  those  who  believe  not  love?  have  they  deep 
emotions  ?  can  they  feel  truly — devotedly  ?  Why,  when  I  talk 
thus  to  you,  do  you  always  answer  me  with  that  chilling  and 
mournful  smile?  You  would  rest  religion  only  on  reason, — as 
well  limit  love  to  the  reason  also  ! — what  were  either  without 
the  feelings? 

''When — when — when  will  you  return?  I  think  I  love  you 
now  more  than  ever.  I  think  I  have  more  courage  to  tell  you 
so.  So  many  things  I  have  to  say,— so  many  events  to  relate. 
For  what  is  not  an  event  to  us?  the  least  incident  that  has 
happened  to  either ;  the  very  fading  of  a  flower,  if  you 
have  worn  it,  is  a  whole  history  to  me. 

"  Adieu,  God  bless  you  ;  God  reward  you  ;  God  keep  your 
heart  with  Him,  dearest,  dearest  Eugene.  And  may  you  every 
day  know  better  and  better  how  utterly  you  are  loved  by  your 

"MADELINE." 

The  epistle  to  which  Lester  referred,  as  received  from  Walter, 
was  one  written  on  the  day  of  his  escape  from  Mr.  Pertinax 
Fillgrave,  a  short  note  rather  than  letter,  which  ran  as  follows : 

"  MY  DEAR  UNCLE: 

"  I  have  met  with  an  accident,  which  confined  me  to  my  bed  ; 
a  rencontre,  indeed,  with  the  knights  of  the  road  ;  nothing 


EUGENE     ARAM.  243 

serious  (so  do  not  be  alarmed  !)  though  the  doctor  would  fain 
have  made  it  so.  I  am  just  about  to  recommence  my  journey  ; 
but  not  towards  London  ;  on  the  contrary,  northward. 

"  I  have,  partly  through  the  information  of  your  old  friend, 
Mr.  Courtland,  partly  by  accident,  found  what  I  hope  may 
prove  a  clue  to  the  fate  of  my  father.  I  am  now  departing  to 
put  this  hope  to  the  issue.  More  I  would  fain  say  ;  but,  lest 
the  expectation  should  prove  fallacious,  I  will  not  dwell  on  cir- 
cumstances which  would,  in  that  case,  only  create  in  you  a  dis- 
appointment similar  to  my  own.  Only  this  take  with  you,  that 
my  father's  proverbial  good-luck  seems  to  have  visited  him 
since  your  latest  news  of  his  fate  ;  a  legacy,  though  not  a  large 
one,  awaited  his  return  to  England  from  India:  but  see  if  I 
am  not  growing  prolix  already ;  I  must  break  off  in  order  to 
reserve  you  the  pleasure  (may  it  be  so  !)  of  a  full  surprise  ! 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear  uncle  !  I  write  in  spirits  and 
hope.  Kindest  love  to  all  at  home.  WALTER  LESTER." 

"  P.S.  Tell  Ellinor  that  my  bitterest  misfortune,  in  the  ad- 
venture I  have  referred  to,  was  to  be  robbed  of  her  purse. 
Will  she  knit  me  another  ?  By  the  way,  I  encountered  Sir  Peter 
Hales :  such  an  open-hearted,  generous  fellow  as  you  said  ! 
4  thereby  hangs  a  tale.'  " 

This  letter,  which  provoked  all  the  curiosity  of  our  little  cir- 
cle, made  them  anxiously  look  forward  to  every  post  for  addi- 
tional explanation,  but  that  explanation  came  not  ;  and  they 
were  forced  to  console  themselves  with  the  evident  exhilara- 
tion under  which  Walter  wrote,  and  the  probable  supposition 
thac  he  delayed  further  information  until  it  could  be  ample  and 
satisfactory.  "  Knights  of  the  road,"  quoth  Lester,  one  day; 
"I  wonder  if  they  were  any  of  the  gang  that  have  just  visited 
us.  Well,  but,  poor  boy  !  he  does  not  say  whether  he  has  any 
money  left :  yet  if  he  were  short  of  the  gold,  he  would  be  very 
unlike  his  father  (or  his  uncle,  for  that  matter)  had  he  forgot- 
ten to  enlarge  on  that  subject,  however  brief  upon  others." 

"Probably,"  said  Ellinor,  "the  corporal  carried  the  main 
sum  about  him  in  those  well-stuffed  saddle-bags,  and  it  was 
only  the  purse  that  Walter  had  about  his  person  that  was  stolen  ; 
and  it  is  clear  that  the  corporal  escaped,  as  he  mentions  noth- 
ing about  that  excellent  personage." 

"  A  shrewd  guess,  Nell  ;  but  pray,  why  should  Walter  carry 
the  purse  about  him  so  carefully?  Ah,  you  blush  :  well,  will 
you  knit  him  another  ?  " 

"  Pshaw,  papa !  Good-by ;  I  am  going  to  gather  you  a 
nosegay." 


244  EUGENE     ARAM. 

But  Ellinor  was  seized  with  a  sudden  fit  of  industry,  and, 
somehow  or  other,  she  grew  fonder  of  knitting  than  ever. 

The  neighborhood  was  now  tranquil  and  at  peace  ;  the  night- 
ly depredators  that  h:;d  infested  the  green  valleys  of  Grassdale 
were  heard  of  no  more  ;  it  seemed  a  sudden  incursion  of  fraud 
and  crime,  which  was  too  unnatural  to  the  character  of  the  spot 
invaded  to  do  more  than  to  terrify  and  to  disappear.  The  trudi- 
tur  dies  die  ;  the  serene  steps  of  one  calm  day  chasing  another 
returned,  and  the  past  alarm  was  only  remembered  as  a  tempt- 
ing subject  of  gossip  to  the  villagers,  and  (at  the  hall)  a  theme 
of  eulogium  on  the  courage  of  Eugene  Aram. 

"  It  is  a  lovely  day,"  said  Lester  to  his  daughters  as  they  sat 
at  the  window  ;  "come,  girls,  get  your  bonnets,  and  let  us  take 
a  walk  into  the  village." 

"  And  meet  the  postman,"  said  Ellinor  archly. 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Madeline,  in  the  same  vein,  but  in  a  whis- 
per that  Lester  might  not  hear  :  "  for  who  knows  but  that  we 
may  have  a  letter  from  Walter  ?  " 

How  prettily  sounds  such  raillery  on  virgin  lips  !  No,  no  ; 
nothing  on  earth  is  so  lovely  as  the  confidence  between  two 
happy  sisters,  who  have  no  secrets  but  those  of  a  guileless  love 
to  reveal  ! 

As  they  strolled  into  the  village  they  were  met  by  Peter 
Dealtry,  who  was  slowly  riding  home  on  a  large  ass,  which  car- 
ried himself  and  his  panniers  to  the  neighboring  market  in  a 
more  quiet  and  luxurious  indolence  of  action  than  would  the 
harsher  motions  of  the  equine  species. 

"  A  fine  day,  Peter  ;  and  what  news  at  market  ? "  said 
Lester. 

"  Corn  high,  hay  dear,  your  honor,"  replied  the  clerk. 

"Ah,  I  suppose  so  ;  a  good  time  to  sell  ours,  Peter:  we 
must  see  about  it  on  Saturday.  But,  pray,  have  you  heard 
anything  from  the  corporal  since  his  departure  ?  " 

"Not  I,  your  honor,  not  I  ;  though  I  think  as  he  might  have 
given  us  a  line,  if  it  was  only  to  thank  me  for  my  care  of  his 
cat  ;  but — 

'  Them  as  comes  to  go  to  roam, 
Thinks  slight  of  they  as  stays  at  home." 

"A  notable  distich,  Peter;  your  own  composition,!  warrant.* 
"  Mine  !  Lord  love  your  honor,  I  has  no  genus,  but  I  has 
memory  ;  and  when  them  ere  beautiful  lines  of  poetry-like 
comes  into  my  head  they  stays  there,  and  stays  till  they  pops  out 
at  my  tongue  like  a  bottle  of  ginger-beer,  I  do  loves  poetry, 
sir,  'specially  the  sacred." 


EUGENE     ARAM.  245 

"We  know  it, — we  know  it." 

"For  there  be  summut  in  it,"  continued  the  clerk,  "which 
smooths  a  man's  heart  like  a  clothes-brush,  wipes  away  the 
dust  and  dirt,  and  sets  all  the  nap  right  :  and  I  thinks  as  how 
'tis  what  a  clerk  of  the  parish  ought  to  study,  your  honor." 

"Nothing  better  ;  you  speak  like  an  oracle." 

"Now,  sir,  there  be  the  corporal,  honest  man,  what  thinks 
himself  mighty  clever, — but  he  has  no  soul  for  varse.  Lord 
love  ye,  to  see  the  faces  he  makes  when  I  tells  him  a  hymn  or 
so  ;  'tis  quite  wicked,  your  honor, — for  that's  what  the  heathen 
did,  as  you  well  know,  sir. 

'  And  when  I  does  discourse  of  things 

Most  holy  to  their  tribe. 
What  does  they  do  ? — they  mocks  at  me, 
And  makes  my  harp  a  gibe.' 

"Tis  not  what  /calls  pretty,  Miss  Ellinor." 

"Certainly  not,  Peter  ;  I  wonder,  with  your  talents  for  verse, 
you  never  indulge  in  a  little  satire  against  such  perverse 
taste." 

"Satire!  what's  that?  Oh,  I  know;  what  they  writes  in 
elections.  Why,  miss,  mayhap  — "  here  Peter  paused,  and 
winked  significantly — "  but  the  corporal's  a  passionate  man, 
you  knows  :  but  I  could  so  sting  him.  Aha  !  we'll  see,  we'll 
see.  Do  you  know,  your  honor," — here  Peter  altered  his  air 
to  one  of  serious  importance,  as  if  about  to  impart  a  most 
sagacious  conjecture,  "I  think  there  be  one  reason  why  the 
corporal  has  not  written  to  me." 

"  And  what's  that,  Peter?" 

"  Cause,  your  honor,  he's  ashamed  of  his  writing  :  I  fancy  as 
how  his  spelling  is  no  better  than  it  should  be, — but  mum's 
the  word.  You  sees,  your  honor,  the  corporal's  got  a  tarn  for 
conversation-like;  he  be  a  mighty  fine  talker,  sure/y/  but  he 
be  shy  of  the  pen  ;  'tis  not  every  man  what  talks  biggest  what's 
the  best  scholard  at  bottom.  Why,  there's  the  newspaper  I 
saw  in  the  market  (for  I  always  sees  the  newspaper  once  a 
week)  says  as  how  some  of  them  great  speakers  in  the  parlia- 
ment house  are  no  better  than  ninnies  when  they  gets  upon 
paper  ;  and  that's  the  corporal's  case,  I  sispect ;  I  suppose  as 
how  they  can't  spell  all  them  ere  long  words  they  make  use  on. 
For  my  part,  I  thinks  there  be  mortal  desate  (deceit)  like  in 
that  ere  public  speaking  ;  for  I  knows  how  far  a  loud  voice 
and  a  bold  face  goes,  even  in  buying  a  cow,  your  honor ;  and 
I'm  afraid  the  country's  greatly  bubbled  in  that  ere  partiklar ; 
for  if  a  man  can't  write  down  clearly  what  he  means  for 


246  EUGENE     ARAM. 

to  say,  I  does  not  think   as   how  he  knows  what  he  means 
when  he  goes  for  to  speak  !  " 

This  speech — quite  a  moral  exposition  from  Peter,  and, 
doubtless,  inspired  by  his  visit  to  market — for  what  wisdom 
cannot  come  from  intercourse  ? — our  good  publican  delivered 
with  especial  solemnity,  giving  a  huge  thump  on  the  sides  of 
his  ass  as  he  concluded. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Peter,"  said  Lester,  laughing,  "  you  have 
grown  quite  a  Solomon  ;  and,  instead  of  a  clerk,  you  ought  to 
be  a  justice  of  the  peace,  at  the  least ;  and,  indeed,  I  must  say 
that  1  think  you  shine  more  in  the  capacity  of  a  lecturer  than  in 
that  of  a  soldier." 

'  Tis  not  for  a  clerk  of  the  parish  to  have  too  great  a  knack 
at  the  weapons  of  the  flesh,"  said  Peter  sanctimoniously,  and 
turning  aside  to  conceal  a  slight  confusion  at  the  unlucky 
reminiscence  of  his  warlike  exploits  ;  "  but  lauk,  sir,  even  as 
to  that,  why,  we  has  frightened  all  the  robbers  away.  What 
would  you  have  us  do  more  ? " 

"  Upon  my  word,  Peter,  you  say  right ;  and  now,  good  day. 
Your  wife's  well,  I  hope?"  And  Jacobina  (is  not  that  the 
cat's  name  ?)  in  high  health  and  favor  ?  " 

"  Hem,  hem  !  why,  to  be  sure,  the  cat's  a  good  cat ;  but  she 
steals  Goody  Truman's  cream  as  Goody  sets  for  butter  reg'larly 
every  night." 

"Oh  !  you  must  cure  her  of  that,"  said  Lester,  smiling.  "  I 
hope  that's  the  worst  fault." 

"Why,  your  gardener  do  say,"  replied  Peter  reluctantly, 
"as  how  she  goes  arter  the  pheasants  in  Copsehole." 

"  The  deuce  !  "  cried  the  squire  ;  "that  will  never  do  :  she 
must  be  shot,  Peter,  she  must  be  shot.  My  pheasants  !  my  best 
preserves  and  poor  Goody  Truman's  cream,  too  !  a  perfect 
devil  !  Look  to  it,  Peter  ;  if  I  hear  any  complaints  again, 
Jacobina  is  done  for.  What  are  you  laughing  at,  Nell?" 

"  Well,  go  thy  ways,  Peter,  for  a  shrewd  man  and  a  clever 
man  ;  it  is  not  every  one  who  could  so  suddenly  have  elicited 
my  father's  compassion  for  Goody  Truman's  cream." 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  the  squire  :  "  a  pheasant's  a  serious  thing, 
child  ;  but  you  women  don't  understand  matters." 

They  had  now  crossed  through  the  village  into  the  fields, 
and  were  slowly  sauntering  by 

"  Hedge-row  elms  on  hillocks  green," 

when,  seated  under  a  stunted  pollard,  they  came  suddenly  on 
the  ill-favored  person  of  Dame  Darkmans.     She  sat  bent  (with 


EUGENE     ARAM.  247 

her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  her  hands  supporting  her  chin  ), 
looking  up  to  the  clear  autumnal  sky  ;  and  as  they  approached, 
she  did  not  stir,  or  testify  by  sign  or  glance  that  she  even  per- 
ceived them. 

There  is  a  certain  kind-hearted  sociability  of  temper  that 
you  see  sometimes  among  country  gentlemen,  especially  not  of 
the  highest  rank,  who  knowing,  and  looked  up  to  by,  everyone 
immediately  around  them,  acquire  the  habit  of  accosting  all 
they  meet — a  habit  as  painful  for  them  to  break,  as  it  was 
painful  for  poor  Rousseau  to  be  asked  "how  he  did"  by  an 
apple-woman.  And  the  kind  old  squire  could  not  pass  even 
Goody  Darkmans  (coming  thus  abruptly  upon  her  )  without  a 
salutation. 

"All  alone,  dame,  enjoying  the  fine  weather? — that's  right. 
And  how  fares  it  with  you  ?  " 

The  old  woman  turned  round  her  dark  and  bleared  eyes,  but 
without  moving  limb  or  posture. 

"  'Tis  well-nigh  winter  now  ;  'tis  not  easy  for  poor  folks  to 
fare  well  at  this  time  o'  year.  Where  be  we  to  get  the  firewood, 
and  the  clothing,  and  the  dry  bread,  carse  it !  and  the  drop  o* 
stuff  that's  to  keep  out  the  cold  ?  Ah,  it's  fine  for  you  to  ask 
how  we  does,  and  the  days  shortening,  and  the  air  sharpening." 

"Well,  dame,  shall  I  send  to for  a  warm  cloak  for 

you?"  said  Madeline. 

"  Ho  !  thankye,  young  lady — thankye  kindly,  and  I'll  wear 
it  at  your  widding,  for  they  says  you  be  going  to  git  married  to 
the  larned  man  yander.  Wish  ye  well,  ma'am,  wish  ye  well." 

And  the  old  hag  grinned  as  she  uttered  this  benediction, 
that  sounded  on  her  lips  like  the  Lord's  Prayer  on  a  witch's  ; 
which  converts  the  devotion  to  a  crime,  and  the  prayer  to  a 
curse. 

"  Ye're  very  winsome,  young  lady,"  she  continued,  eyeing 
Madeline's  tall  and  rounded  figure  from  head  to  foot.  "Yes, 
very  ;  but  I  was  as  bonny  as  you  once,  and  if  you  lives — mind 
that — fair  and  happy  as  you  stand  now,  you'll  be  as  withered, 
and  foul-faced,  and  wretched  as  me.  Ha  !  ha  !  I  loves  to  look 
on  young  folks,  and  think  o'  that.  But  mayhap  ye  won't  live 
to  be  old — more's  the  pity  !  for  ye  might  be  a  widow,  and 
childless,  and  a  lone  'oman,  as  I  be  ;  if  you  were  to  see  sixty  : 
an'  wouldn't  that  be  nice?  ha  !  ha  ! — much  pleasure  ye'd  have 
in  the  fine  weather  then,  and  in  people's  fine  speeches,  eh?  " 

"Come,  dame,"  said  Lester,  with  a  cloud  on  his  benign 
brow,  "  this  talk  is  ungrateful  to  me,  and  disrespectful  to  Miss 
Lester  ;  it  is  not  the  way  to — " 


248  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"  Hout  ! "  interrupted  the  old  woman  ;  "I  begs  pardon,  sir, 
if  I  offended  ;  I  begs  pardon,  young  lady  :  'tis  my  way,  poor 
old  soul  that  I  be.  And  you  meant  me  kindly,  and  I  would 
not  be  uncivil,  now  you  are  a-going  to  give  me  a  bonny  cloak  ; 
and  what  color  shall  it  be  ?  " 

"Why,  what  color  would  you  like  best,  dame — red  ?  " 

"  Red  !  no  !  like  a  gypsy-quean,  indeed  !  Besides,  they  all 
has  red  cloaks  in  the  village,  yonder.  No  ;  a  handsome  dark 
gray,  or  a  gay,  cheersome  black,  and  then  I'll  dance  in  mourn- 
ing at  your  wedding,  young  lady  :  and  that's  what  ye'll  like. 
But  what  ha'  ye  done  with  the  merry  bridegroom,  ma'am  ? 
Gone  away,  I  hear.  Ah,  ye'll  have  a  happy  life  on  it,  with  a 
gentleman  like  him.  I  never  seed  him  laugh  once.  Why  does 
not  he  hire  me  as  your  sarvant ;  would  not  I  be  a  favorite, 
thin  ?  I'd  stand  on  the  thrishold,  and  give  ye  good-morrow 
every  day.  Oh  !  it  does  me  a  deal  of  good  to  say  a  blessing 
to  them  as  be  younger  and  gayer  than  me.  Madge  Darkmans's 
blessing  !  Och  !  what  a  thing  to  wish  for !  " 

"  Well,  good-day,  mother,"  said  Lester,  moving  on. 

"  Stay  a  bit,  stay  a  bit,  sir  ;  has  ye  any  commands,  miss, 
yonder,  at  Master  Aram's  ?  His  old  'ornan's  a  gossip  of  mine  ; 
we  were  young  togither  ;  and  the  lads  did  not  know  which  to 
like  the  best.  So  we  often  meets  and  talks  of  the  old  times. 
I  be  going  up  there  now.  Och  !  I  hope  I  shall  be  asked  to  the 
widding.  And  what  a  nice  month  to  wid  in  !  Novimber, 
Novimber,  that's  the  merry  month  for  me  !  But  'tis  cold — bit- 
ter cold,  too.  Well,  good-day,  good-day.  Ay,"  continued  the 
hag,  as  Lester  and  the  sisters  moved  on,  "ye  all  goes  and 
throws  niver  a  look  behind.  Ye  despises  the  poor  in  your 
hearts.  But  the  poor  will  have  their  day.  Och  !  an*  I  wish 
ye  were  dead,  dead,  dead,  an'  I  dancing  in  my  bonny  black 
cloak  about  your  graves  ;  for  an't  all  mine  dead,  cold,  cold, 
rotting,  and  one  kind  and  rich  man  might  ha'  saved  them  all  ?" 

Thus  mumbling,  the  wretched  creature  looked  after  the 
father  and  his  daughters,  as  they  wound  onward,  till  her  dim 
eyes  caught  them  no  longer  ;  and  then,  drawing  her  rags  round 
her,  she  rose,  and  struck  into  the  opposite  path  that  led  to 
Aram's  house. 

"  I  hope  that  hag  will  be  no  constant  visitor  at  your  future 
residence,  Madeline,"  said  the  younger  sister  ;  "  it  would  be  like 
a  blight  on  the  air." 

"  And  if  we  could  remove  her  from  the  parish,"  said  Lester, 
"  it  would  be  a  happy  day  for  the  village.  Yet,  strange  as  it 
may  seem,  so  great  is  her  power  over  them  all,  that  there  is 


EUGENE      ARAM.  24$ 

never  a  marriage  nor  a  christening  in  the  village  from  which 
she  is  absent  ;  they  dread  her  spite  and  foul  tongue  enough,  to 
make  them  even  ask  humbly  for  her  presence." 

"  And  the  hag  seems  to  know  that  her  bad  qualities  are  a 
good  policy  and  obtain  more  respect  than  amiability  would 
do,"  said  Ellinor.  "  I  think  there  is  some  design  in  all  she 
utters." 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  the  words  and  sight  of  that 
woman  have  struck  a  damp  into  my  heart,"  said  Madeline 
musingly. 

"  It  would  be  wonderful  if  they  had  not,  child,"  said  Les- 
ter soothingly ;  and  he  changed  the  conversation  to  other 
topics. 

As,  concluding  their  walk,  they  re-entered  the  village,  they 
encountered  that  most  welcome  of  all  visitants  to  a  country 
village,  the  postman— -a.  tall,  thin  pedestrian,  famous  for  swift- 
ness of  foot,  with  a  cheerful  face,  a  swinging  gait,  and  Lester's 
bag  slung  over  his  shoulder.  Our  little  party  quickened  their 
pace — one  letter — for  Madeline — Aram's  handwriting.  Happy 
blush — bright  smile  !  Ah  !  no  meeting  ever  gives  the  delight 
that  a  letter  can  inspire  in  the  short  absences  of  a  first  love  ! 

"And  none  for  me!  "  said  Lester,  in  a  disappointed  tone, 
and  Ellinor's  hand  hung  more  heavily  on  his  arm,  and  her 
step  moved  slower.  "  It  is  very  strange  in  Walter  ;  but  I  am 
really  more  angry  than  alarmed." 

"  Be  sure,"  said  Ellinor,  after  a  pause,  "  that  it  is  not  his  fault. 
Something  may  have  happened  to  him.  Good  heavens  !  if  he 
has  been  attacked  again — those  fearful  highwaymen  !  " 

"  Nay,"  said  Lester,  "the  most  probable  supposition  after 
all  is,  that  he  will  not  write  until  his  expectations  are  realized 
or  destroyed.  Natural  enough,  too  ;  it  is  what  I  should  have 
done,  if  I  had  been  in  his  place." 

"  Natural !  "  said  Ellinor,  who  now  attacked  where  she  be- 
fore defended — "  natural  not  to  give  us  one  line,  to  say  he  is 
well  and  safe  !  Natural  !  /could  not  have  been  so  remiss  !" 

"  Ay,  child,  you  women  are  so  fond  of  writing  :  'tis  not  so 
with  us,  especially  when  we  are  moving  about :  it  is  always — 
'  Well,  I  must  write  to-morrow  ;  well,  I  must  write  when  this  is 
settled;  well,  I  must  write  when  I  arrive  at  such  a  place'; 
and,  meanwhile,  time  slips  on,  till  perhaps  we  get  ashamed  of 
writing  at  all.  I  heard  a  great  man  say  once,  that  '  Men  must 
have  something  effeminate  about  them  to  be  good  correspond- 
ents'  ;  and,  faith,  I  think  it's  true  enough  on  the  whole." 

('I  wonder  if  Madeline  thinks  so  ?  "  said  Ellinor,  enviously 


250  EUGENE      ARAM. 

glancing  at  her  sister's  absorption,  as,  lingering  a  little  behind, 
she  devoured  the  contents  of  her  letter. 

"  He  is  coming  home  immediately,  dear  father ;  perhaps  he 
may  be  here  to-morrow,"  cried  Madeline  abruptly  ;  "  think  of 
that,  Ellinor  !  Ah  !  and  he  writes  in  spirits  !  " — and  the  poor 
girl  clapped  her  hands  delightedly,  as  the  color  danced  joy- 
ously over  her  cheek  and  neck. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  quoth  Lester ;  we  shall  have  him  at 
last  beat  even  Ellinor  in  gayety  !  " 

"  That  may  easily  be,"  sighed  Ellinor  to  herself,  as  she 
glided  past  them  into  the  house,  and  sought  her  own  chamber. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A     REFLECTION     NEW     AND    STRANGE. — THE    STREETS    OF    LON- 
DON.— A  GREAT  MAN'S  LIBRARY. — A  CONVERSATION  BETWEEN 

THE  STUDENT  AND  AN  ACQUAINTANCE    OF  THE    READER'S. 

ITS  RESULT. 

"  Here's  a  statesman  ! 
***** 

Kolla.  Ask  for  thyself. 

Lat.  What  more  can  concern  me  than  this?" — The  Tiagedy  of  Rolla. 

IT  was  an  evening  in  the  declining  autumn  of  1758  ;  some 
public  ceremony  had  occurred  during  the  day,  and  the  crowd 
which  it  had  assembled  was  only  now  gradually  lessening,  as 
the  shadows  darkened  along  the  streets.  Through  this  crowd, 
self-absorbed  as  usual — with  them,  not  one  of  them — Eugene 
Aram  slowly  wound  his  uncompanioned  way.  What  an  incal- 
culable field  of  dread  and  sombre  contemplation  is  opened  to 
every  man  who,  with  his  heart  disengaged  from  himself  and  his 
eyes  accustomed  to  the  sharp  observance  of  his  tribe,  walks 
through  the  streets  of  a  great  city  !  What  a  world  of  dark  and 
troubled  secrets  in  the  breast  of  every  one  who  hurries  by  you! 
Goethe  has  said  somewhere  that  each  of  us,  the  best  as  the 
worst,  hides  within  him  something — some  feeling,  some  remem- 
brance that,  if  known,  would  make  you  hate  him.  No  doubt 
the  saying  is  exaggerated  ;  but  still,  what  a  gloomy  and  pro- 
found sublimity  in  the  idea  ! — what  a  new  insight  it  gives  into 
the  hearts  of  the  common  herd  ! — with  what  a  strange  interest 
it  may  inspire  us  for  the  humblest,  the  tritest  passenger  that 
shoulders  us  in  the  great  thoroughfare  of  life  !  One  of  the 
greatest  pleasures  in  the  world  is  to  walk  alone,  and  at  night 


EUGENE     ARAM.  251 

(while  they  are  yet  crowded),  through  the  long,  lamp-lit  streets 
of  this  huge  metropolis.  There,  even  more  than  in  the  silence 
of  woods  and  fields,  seems  to  me  the  source  of  endless,  various 
meditation. 

"  Crescit  enim  cum  amplitudine  rerum  vis  ingenii. "  * 

There  was  that  in  Aram's  person  which  irresistibly  com- 
manded attention.  The  earnest  composure  of  his  counte- 
nance, its  thoughtful  paleness,  the  long  hair  falling  back,  the 
i  peculiar  and  estranged  air  of  his  whole  figure,  accompanied  as 
1  it  was  by  a  mildness  of  expression,  and  that  lofty  abstraction, 
which  characterizes  one  who  is  a  brooder  over  his  own  heart — 
a  soothsayer  to  his  own  dreams  ;  all  these  arrested  from  time 
to  time  the  second  gaze  of  the  passenger,  and  forced  on  him 
the  impression,  simple  as  was  the  dress,  and  unpretending  as 
was  the  gait  of  the  stranger,  that  in  indulging  that  second  gaze 
he  was  in  all  probability  satisfying  the  curiosity  which  makes  us 
love  to  fix  our  regard  upon  any  remarkable  man. 

A.t  length  Aram  turned  from  the  more  crowded  streets,  and 
in  a  short  time  paused  before  one  of  the  most  princely  houses 
in  London.  It  was  surrounded  by  a  spacious  courtyard,  and 
over  the  porch  the  arms  of  the  owner,  with  the  coronet  and 
supporters,  were  raised  in  stone. 

"Is  Lord within  ?"  asked  Aram,  of  the  bluff  porter 

who  appeared  at  the  gate. 

"My  Lord  is  at  dinner,"  replied  the  porter,  thinking  the  an- 
swer quite  sufficient,  and  about  to  reclose  the  gate  upon  the 
unseasonable  visitor. 

"I  am  glad  to  find  he  is  at  home,"  rejoined  Aram,  gliding 
past  the  servant  with  an  air  of  quiet  and  unconscious  com- 
mand, and  passing  the  court-yard  to  the  main  building. 

At  the  door  of  the  house,  to  which  you  ascended  by  a  flight 
of  stone  steps,  the  valet  of  the  nobleman — the  only  nobleman 
introduced  in  our  tale,  and  consequently  the  same  whom  we 
have  presented  to  our  reader  in  the  earlier  part  of  this  work, 
happened  to  be  lounging  and  enjoying  the  smoke  of  the  even- 
ing air.  High-bred,  prudent,  and  sagacious,  Lord  —  -  knew 
well  how  often  great  men,  especially  in  public  life,  obtain 
odium  for  the  rudeness  of  their  domestics  ;  and  all  those  es- 
pecially about  himself  had  been  consequently  tutored  into  the 
habits  of  universal  courtesy  and  deference,  to  the  lowest 
stranger  as  well  as  to  the  highest  guest.  And  trifling  as  this 
may  seem,  it  was  an  act  of  morality  as  well  as  of  prudence. 

*  For  the  power  of  the  intellect  is  increased  by  the  amplitude  of  the  things  that  feed  it. 


252  EUGENE      ARAM. 

Few  can  guess  what  pain  may  be  saved  to  poor  and  proud  men 
of  merit  by  a  similar  precaution.  The  valet,  therefore,  replied 
to  the  visitor's  inquiry  with  great  politeness  ;  he  recollected 
Aram's  name  and  repute ;  and  as  the  earl,  taking  delight  in 
the  company  of  men  of  letters,  was  generally  easy  of  access  to 
all  such,  the  great  man's  great  man  instantly  conducted  the 
student  to  the  earl's  library,  and  informing  him  that  his  lord- 
ship had  not  yet  left  the  dining-room,  where  he  was  entertain- 
ing a  large  party,  assured  him  that  he  should  be  apprised  of 
Aram's  visit  the  moment  he  did  so. 

Lord was  still  in  office ;  sundry  boxes  were  scattered 

on  the  floor  ;  papers,  that  seemed  countless,  lay  strewed  over 
the  immense  library  table  ;  but  here  and  there  were  books  of  a 
more  seductive  character  than  those  of  business,  in  which  the 
mark  lately  set,  and  the  pencilled  note  still  fresh,  showed  .the 
fondness  with  which  men  of  cultivated  minds,  though  engaged 
in  official  pursuits,  will  turn  in  the  momentary  intervals  of 
more  arid  and  toilsome  life  to  those  lighter  studies  which  per- 
haps they  in  reality  the  most  enjoy. 

One  of  these  books,  a  volume  of  Shaftesbury,  Aram  carefully 
took  up  ;  it  opened  of  its  own  accord  at  that  most  beautiful  and 
profound  passage,  which  contains  perhaps  the  justest  sarcasm 
to  which  that  ingenious  and  graceful  reasoner  has  given  vent: 

"The  very  spirit  of  Faction,  for  the  greatest  part,  seems  to 
be  no  other  than  the  abuse  or  irregularity  of  that  social  love 
and  common  affection  which  is  natural  to  mankind  ;  for  the 
opposite  of  sociableness  is  selfishness ;  and  of  all  characters, 
the  thorough  selfish  one  is  the  least  forward  in  taking  party. 
The  men  of  this  sort  are,  in  this  respect,  true  men  of  modera- 
tion. They  are  secure  of  their  temper,  and  possess  themselves 
too  well  to  be  in  danger  of  entering  warmly  into  any  cause,  or 
engaging  deeply  with  any  side  or  faction." 

On  the  margin  of  the  page  was  the  following  note,  in  the 
handwriting  of  Lord : 

'  Generosity  hurries  a  man  into  party — philosophy  keeps 
him  aloof  from  it ;  the  Emperor  Julian  says  in  his  epistle  to 
Themistius,  'If  you  should  form  only  three  or  four  philoso- 
phers, you  would  contribute  more  essentially  to  the  happiness 
of  mankind  than  many  kings  united.'  Yet,  if  all  men  were 
philosophers,  I  doubt  whether,  though  more  men  would  be 
virtuous,  there  would  be  so  many  instances  of  an  extraordi- 
nary virtue.  The  violent  passions  produce  dazzling  irregu- 
larities." 

The  student  was  still  engaged  with  this  note  when  the  earl 


EUGENE      ARAM.  253 

entered  the  loom.  As  the  door  through  which  he  passed  was 
behind  Aram,  and  he  trod  with  a  soft  step,  he  was  not  perceived 
by  the  scholar  till  he  had  reached  him,  and,  looking  over 
Aram's  shoulder,  the  earl  said  :  "  You  will  dispute  the  truth  of 
my  remark,  will  you  not  ?  Profound  calm  is  the  element  in 
which  you  would  place  all  the  virtues." 

"  Not  #//,  my  lord,"  answered  Aram,  rising,  as  the  earl  now 
shook  him  by  the  hand,  and  expressed  his  delight  at  seeing  the 
student  again.  Though  the  sagacious  nobleman  had  no  sooner 
heard  the  student's  name,  than,  in  his  own  heart,  he  was  con- 
vinced that  Aram  had  sought  him  for  the  purpose  of  soliciting 
a  renewal  of  the  offers  he  had  formerly  refused  ;  he  resolved 
to  leave  his  visitor  to  open  the  subject  himself,  and  appeared 
courteously  to  consider  the  visit  as  a  matter  of  course,  made 
without  any  other  object  than  the  renewal  of  the  mutual  pleas- 
ure of  intercourse. 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  lord,"  said  Aram,  "  that  you  are  engaged. 
My  visit  can  be  paid  to-morrow  if — " 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  earl,  interrupting  him,  and  drawing  a 
chair  to  the  table,  "  I  have  no  engagements  which  should  de- 
prive me  of  the  pleasure  of  your  company.  A  few  friends  have 

indeed  dined  with  me,  but  as  they  are  now  with  Lady ,  I 

do  not  think  they  will  greatly  miss  me ;  besides,  an  occasional 
absence  is  readily  forgiven  in  us  happy  men  of  office,— we  who 
have  the  honor  of  exciting  the  envy  of  all  England,  for  being 
made  magnificently  wretched." 

"I  am  glad  you  allow  so  much,  my.  lord,"  said  Aram,  smiling  ; 
"/could  not  have  said  more.  Ambition  only  makes  a  favorite 

to  make  an  ingrate  ;  she  has  lavished  her  honors  on  Lord , 

and  hear  how  he  speaks  of  her  bounty  !." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  earl,  "  I  spoke  wantonly,  and  stand  cor- 
rected. I  have  no  reason  to  complain  of  the  course  I  have 
chosen.  Ambition,  like  any  other  passion,  gives  us  unhappy 
moments  ;  but  it  gives  us  also  an  animated  life.  In  its  pursuit, 
the  minor  evils  of  the  world  are  not  felt ;  little  crosses,  little 
vexations  do  not  disturb  us.  Like  men  who  walk  in  sleep,  we 
are  absorbed  in  one  powerful  dream,  and  do  not  even  know 
the  obstacles  in  our  way,  or  the  dangers  that  surround  us :  in  a 
word,  we  have  no  private  life.  All  that  is  merely  domestic,  the 
anxiety  and  the  loss  which  fret  other  men,  which  blight  the 
happiness  of  other  men,  are  not  felt  by  us  :  we  are  wholly 
public, — so  that  if  we  lose  much  comfort,  we  escape  much 
care." 

The  earl  broke  off  for  a  moment ;  and  then  turning  the  sub- 


254  EUGENE      ARAM. 

ject,  inquired  after  the  Lesters,  and  making  some  general  and 
vague  observations  about  that  family,  came  purposely  to  a 
pause. 

Aram  broke  it : 

"My  lord,"  said  he,  with  a  slight,  but  not  ungraceful  embar- 
rassment, "  I  fear  that,  in  the  course  of  your  political  life,  you 
must  have  made  one  observation,- — that  he  who  promises  to-day, 
will  be  called  upon  to  perform  to-morrow.  No  man  who  has 
anything  to  bestow  can  ever  promise  with  impunity.  Some 
time  since,  you  tendered  me  offers  that  would  have  dazzled 
more  ardent  natures  than  mine ;  and  which  I  might  have 
advanced  some  claim  to  philosophy  in  refusing.  I  do  not  now 
come  to  ask  a  renewal  of  those  offers.  Public  life  and  the 
haunts  of  men  are  as  hateful  as  ever  to  my  pursuits :  but  I 
come,  frankly  and  candidly,  to  throw  myself  on  that  generosity, 
which  then  proffered  to  me  so  large  a  bounty.  Certain  cir- 
cumstances have  taken  from  me  the  small  pittance  which  sup- 
plied my  wants  ;  I  require  only  the  power  to  pursue  my  quiet 
and  obscure  career  of  study  ;  your  lordship  can  afford  me  that 
power :  it  is  not  against  custom  for  the  government  to  grant 
some  small  annuity  to  men  of  letters ;  your  lordship's  interest 
could  obtain  me  this  favor.  Let  me  add,  however,  that  I  can 
offer  nothing  in  return  !  Party  politics — sectarian  interests — 
are  forever  dead  to  me  :  even  my  common  studies  are  of  small 
general  utility  to  mankind.  I  am  conscious  of  this — would 
it  were  otherwise !  Once  I  hoped  it  would  be — but — " 
Aram  here  turned  deadly  pale,  gasped  for  breath,  mastered  his 
emotion,  and  proceeded  :  "I  have  no  great  claim,  then,  to  this 
bounty,  beyond  that  which  all  poor  cultivators  of  the  abstruse 
sciences  can  advance.  It  is  well  for  a  country  that  those 
sciences  should  be  cultivated  ;  they  are  not  of  a  nature  which 
is  ever  lucrative  to  the  possessor — not  of  a  nature  that  can  often 
be  left,  like  lighter  literature,  to  the  fair  favor  of  the  public  ;  they 
call,  perhaps,  more  than  any  species  of  intellectual  culture,  for 
the  protection  of  a  government';  and  though  in  me  would  be  a 
poor  selection,  the  principle  would  still  be  served,  and  the  ex- 
ample furnish  precedent  for  nobler  instances  hereafter.  I  have 
said  all,  my  lord  !  " 

Nothing  perhaps  more  affects  a  man  of  some  sympathy  with 
those  who  cultivate  letters  than  the  pecuniary  claims  of  one 
who  can  advance  them  with  justice,  and  who  advances  them 
also  with  dignity.  If  the  meanest,  the  most  pitiable,  the  most 
heart-sickening  object  in  the  world,  is  the  man  of  letters,  sunk 
into  the  habitual  beggar,  practicing  the  tricks,  incurring  the 


EUGENE      ARAM.  255 

rebuke,  glorying  in  the  shame,  of  the  mingled  mendicant  and 
swindler ;  what,  on  the  other  hand,  so  touches,  so  subdues  us, 
as  the  first,  and  only  petition,  of  one  whose  intellect  dignifies 
our  whole  kind  ;  and  who  prefers  it  with  a  certain  haughtiness 
in  his  very  modesty  ;  because,  in  asking  a  favor  to  himself,  he 
may  be  only  asking  the  power  to  enlighten  the  world  ? 

"  Say  no  more,  sir,"  said  the  earl,  affected  deeply,  and  grace- 
fully giving  way  to  the  feeling  ;  "  the  affair  is  settled.  Con- 
sider it  so.  Name  only  the  amount  of  the  annuity  you  desire." 

With  some  hesitation  Aram  named  a  sum  so  moderate,  so 
trivial,  that  the  minister,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  the  claims 
of  younger  sons  and  widowed  dowagers — accustomed  to  the 
hungry  cravings  of  petitioners  without  merit,  who  considered 
birth  the  only  just  title  to  the  right  of  exactions  from  the  pub- 
lic— was  literally  startled  by  the  contrast.  "More  than  this," 
added  Aram,  "  I  do  not  require,  and  would  decline  to  accept. 
We  have  some  right  to  claim  existence  from  the  administrators 
of  the  common  stock — none  to  claim  affluence." 

"  Would  to  Heaven  !  "  said  the  earl,  smiling,  "  that  all  claim- 
ants were  like  you  ;  pension  lists  would  not  then  call  for  indig- 
nation ;  and  ministers  would  not  blush  to  support  the  justice  of 
the  favors  they  conferred.  But  are  you  still  firm  in  rejecting  a 
more  public  career,  with  all  its  deserved  emoluments  and  just 
honors  ?  The  offer  I  made  you  once,  I  renew  with  increased 
avidity  now." 

"  '  Dcspiciam  dites?  "  answered  Aram,  "  and,  thanks  to  you, 
I  may  add,  'despiciamque  famcm'  "  * 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  THAMES  AT  NIGHT. — A  THOUGHT. — THE  STUDENT  RESEEKS 

THE     RUFFIAN. A     HUMAN     FEELING    EVEN     IN    THE     WORST 

SOIL. 

"  Clem.   'Tis  our  last  interview  ! 

Stat.   Pray  Heav'n  it  be  !  " — Clemanthes. 

ON  leaving  Lord '  s,  Aram  proceeded,  with  a  lighter 

and  more  rapid  step,  towards  a  less  courtly  quarter  of  the 
metropolis. 

He  had  found,  on  arriving  in  London,  that  in  order  to  secure 
the  annual  sum  promised  to  Houseman,  it  had  been  necessary  to 
strip  himself  even  of  the  small  stipend  he  had  hoped  to  retain. 

*  "  Let  me  despise  wealth,"  and,  thanks  to  you,  I  may  add,  "and  let  me  look  down  on 
famine." 


256  EUGENE      ARAM. 

And  hence  his  visit,  and  hence  his  petition,  to  Lord .  He 

now  bent  his  way  to  the  spot  in  which  Houseman  had  appointed 
their  meeting.  To  the  fastidious  reader  these  details  of  pecuniary 
matters,  so  trivial  in  themselves,  may  be  a  little  wearisome,  and 
may  seem  a  little  undignified  ;  but  we  are  writing  a  romance  of 
real  life,  and  the  reader  must  take  what  is  homely  with  what 
may  be  more  epic — the  pettiness  and  the  wants  of  the  daily 
world,  with  its  loftier  sorrows  and  its  grander  crimes.  Besides, 
who  knows  how  darkly  just  may  be  that  moral  which  shows  us  a 
nature  originally  high,  a  soul  once  all  athirst  for  truth,  bowed 
(by  what  events  ?)  to  the  manoeuvres  and  the  lies  of  the  worldly 
hypocrite? 

The  night  had  now  closed  in,  and  its  darkness  was  only 
relieved  by  the  wan  lamps  that  vistaed  the  streets,  and  a  few 
dim  stars  that  struggled  through  the  reeking  haze  that  curtained 
the  great  city.  Aram  had  now  gained  one  of  the  bridges  "  that 
arch  the  royal  Thames,"  and,  in  no  time  dead  to  scenic  attrac- 
tion, he  there  paused  for  a  moment,  and  looked  along  the  dark 
river  that  rushed  below. 

Oh,  God !  how  many  wild  and  stormy  hearts  have  stilled 
themselves  on  that  spot,  for  one  dread  instant  of  thought — of 
calculation — of  resolve — one  instant,  the  last  of  life  !  Look  at 
night  along  the  course  of  that  stately  river,  how  gloriously  it 
seems  to  mock  the  passions  of  them  that  dwell  beside  it.  Un- 
changed—unchanging— all  around  it  quick  death,  and  troubled 
life ;  itself  smiling  up  to  the  gray  stars,  and  singing  from  its 
deep  heart  as  it  bounds  along.  Beside  it  is  the  senate,  proud 
of  its  solemn  triflers  ;  and  there  the  cloistered  tomb,  in  which, 
as  the  loftiest  honor,  some  handful  of  the  fiercest  of  the  strug- 
glers  may  gain  forgetfulness  and  a  grave  !  There  is  no  moral 
to  a  great  city  like  the  river  that  washes  its  walls. 

There  was  something  in  the  view  before  him,  that  suggested 
reflections  similar  to  these,  to  the  strange  and  mysterious  breast 
of  the  lingering  student.  A  solemn  dejection  crept  over  him, 
a  warning  voice  sounded  on  his  ear,  the  fearful  genius  within 
him  was  aroused,  and  even  in  the  moment  when  his  triumph 
seemed  complete  and  his  safety  secured,  he  felt  it  only  as — 

"  The  torrent's  smoothness  ere  it  clash  below." 

The  mist  obscured  and  saddened  the  few  lights  scattered  on 
either  side  the  water ;  and  a  deep  and  gloomy  quiet  brooded 
round : 

"The  very  heuses  seemed  asleep, 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  was  lying  still." 


EUGENE     ARAM.  257 

Arousing  himself  from  his  short  and  sombre  revery,  Aram  re- 
sumed his  way,  and  threading  some  of  the  smaller  streets  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  water,  arrived  at  last  in  the  street  in 
which  he  was  to  seek  Houseman. 

It  was  a  narrow  and  dark  lane,  and  seemed  altogether  of  a 
suspicious  and  disreputable  locality.  One  or  two  samples  of 
the  lowest  description  of  alehouses  broke  the  dark  silence  of 
the  spot  ;  from  them  streamed  the  only  lighis  which  assisted 
the  single  lamp  that  burned  at  the  entrance  of  the  alley  ;  and 
bursts  of  drunken  laughter  and  obscene  merriment  broke  out 
every  now  and  then  from  these  wretched  theatres  of  Pleasure. 
As  Aram  passed  one  of  them,  a  crowd  of  the  lowest  order  of 
ruffian  and  harlot  issued  noisily  from  the  door,  and  suddenly 
obstructed  his  way  :  through  this  vile  press,  reeking  with  the 
stamp  and  odor  of  the  most  repellant  character  of  vice,  was 
the  lofty  and  cold  student  to  force  his  path  !  The  darkness, 
his  quick  step,  his  downcast  head,  favored  his  escape  through 
the  unhallowed  throng,  and  he  now  stood  opposite  the  door  of  a 
small  and  narrow  house.  A  ponderous  knocker  adorned  the 
door,  which  seemed  of  uncommon  strength,  being  thickly  stud- 
ded with  large  nails.  He  knocked  twice  before  his  summons 
was  answered,  and  then  a  voice  from  within  cried,  "Who's 
there  ?  What  want  you  ?  " 

"I  seek  one  called  Houseman." 

No  answer  was  returned  ;  some  moments  elapsed.  Again 
the  student  knocked,  and  presently  he  heard  the  voice  of 
Houseman  himself  call  out : 

"  Who's  there — Joe  the  Cracksman  ? " 

"  Richard  Houseman,  it  is  I,"  answered  Aram,  in  a  deep  tone, 
and  suppressing  the  natural  feelings  of  loathing  and  abhor- 
rence. 

Houseman  uttered  a  quick  exclamation  ;  the  door  was  has- 
tily unbarred.  All  within  was  utterly  dark  ;  but  Aram  felt 
with  a  thrill  of  repugnance  the  grip  of  his  strange  acquaintance 
on  his  hand. 

"Ha!  it  is  you!  Come  in,  come  in! — let  me  lead  you. 
Have  a  care — cling  to  the  wall — the  right  hand — now 
then — stay.  So — so — (opening  the  door  of  a  room,  in  which 
a  single  candle,  well  nigh  in  its  socket,  broke  on  the  previous 
darkness);  here  we  are!  here  we  are!  And  how  goes  it, 
eh—  ? " 

Houseman  now  bustling  about,  did  the  honors  of  his  apart- 
ment with  a  sort  of  complacent  hospitality.  He  drew  two 
rough  wooden  chairs,  that  in  some  late  merriment  seemed  to  have 


258  EUGENE     ARAM. 

been  upset,  and  lay  cumbering  the  unwashed  and  carpetless 
floor,  in  a  position  exactly  contrary  to  that  destined  them  by 
their  maker  ;  he  drew  these  chairs  near  a  table  strewed  with 
drinking  horns,  half-emptied  bottles,  and  a  pack  of  cards. 
Dingy  caricatures,  of  the  large,  coarse  fashion  of  the  day,  dec- 
orated the  walls ;  and,  carelessly  thrown  on  the  table,  lay  a 
pair  of  huge  horse-pistols,  an  immense  shovel  hat,  a  false 
moustache,  a  rouge-pot,  and  a  riding  whip.  All  this  the  student 
comprehended  with  a  rapid  glance  ;  his  lip  quivered  for  a  mo- 
ment, whether  with  shame  or  scorn  of  himself,  and  then  throw- 
ing himself  on  the  chair  Houseman  had  set  for  him,  he  said  : 

"  I  have  come  to  discharge  my  part  of  our  agreement." 

"  You  are  most  welcome,"  replied  Houseman,  with  that  tone 
of  coarse,  yet  flippant  jocularity,  which  afforded  to  the  mien 
and  manner  of  Aram  a  still  stronger  contrast  than  his  more 
unrelieved  brutality. 

"There,"  said  Aram,  giving  him  a  paper;  "there  you  will 
perceive  that  the  sum  mentioned  is  secured  to  you,  the  moment 
you  quit  this  country.  When  shall  that  be?  Let  me  entreat 
haste." 

"  Your  prayer  shall  be  granted.  Before  daybreak  to-mor- 
row, I  will  be  on  the  road." 

Aram's  face  brightened. 

"There  is  my  hand  upon  it,"  said  Houseman  earnestly. 
"You  may  now  rest  assured  that  you  are  free  of  me  for  life. 
Go  home — marry— enjoy  your  existence,  as  I  have  done. 
Within  four  days,  if  the  wind  set  fair,  I  am  in  France." 

"  My  business  is  done ;  I  will  believe  you,"  said  Aram 
frankly,  and  rising. 

"You  may,"  answered  Houseman.  "Stay — I  will  light 
you  to  the  door.  Devil  and  death — how  the  d — d  candle 
flickers  ! " 

Across  the  gloomy  passage,  as  the  candle  now  flared — and 
now  was  dulled — by  quick  fits  and  starts, — Houseman,  after 
this  brief  conference,  reconducted  the  student.  And  as  Aram 
turned  from  the  door,  he  flung  his  arms  wildly  aloft,  and  ex- 
claimed, in  the  voice  of  one,  from  whose  heart  a  load  is  lifted : 
"Now,  now,  for  Madeline  !  I  breathe  freely  at  last  ! " 

Meanwhile,  Houseman  turned  musingly  back,  and  regained 
his  room,  muttering  : 

"Yes — yes — my  business  here  is  also  done  !  Competence  and 
safety  abroad — after  all,  what  a  bugbear  is  this  conscience  ! — 
fourteen  years  have  rolled  away — and  lo  !  nothing  discovered  ! 
nothing  known !  And  easy  circumstances — the  very  conse- 


EUGENE     ARAM.  2$9 

quence  of  the  deed — wait  the  remainder  of  my  days  ;  my  child, 
too — my  Jane — shall  not  want — shall  not  be  a  beggar  or  a 
harlot." 

So  musing,  Houseman  threw  himself  contentedly  on  the 
chair,  and  the  last  flicker  of  the  expiring  light,  as  it  played 
upward  on  his  rugged  countenance,  rested  on  one  of  those  self- 
hugging  smiles,  with  which  a  sanguine  man  contemplates  a 
satisfactory  future. 

He  had  not  been  long  alone  before  the  door  opened,  and  a 
woman  with  a  light  in  her  hand  appeared.  She  was  evidently 
intoxicated,  and  approached  Houseman  with  a  reeling  and  un- 
steady step. 

"How  now,  Bess?  drunk  as  usual!  Get  to  bed,  you  she 
shark,  go  !  " 

"Tush,  man,  tush!  don't  talk  to  your  betters,"  said  the 
woman,  sinking  into  a  chair ;  and  her  situation,  disgusting  as 
it  was,  could  not  conceal  the  striking,  though  somewhat  coarse, 
beauty  of  her  face  and  person. 

Even  Houseman  (his  heart  being  opened,  as  it  were,  by  the 
cheering  prospects  of  which  his  soliloquy  had  indulged  the 
contemplation)  was  sensible  of  the  effect  of  the  mere  physical 
attraction,  and  drawing  his  chair  closer  to  her,  he  said  in  a 
tone  less  harsh  than  usual : 

"Come,  Bess,  come,  you  must  correct  that  d — d  habit  of 
yours ;  perhaps  I  may  make  a  lady  of  you  after  all.  What  if 
I  were  to  let  you  take  a  trip  with  me  to  France,  old  girl,  eh  ;  and 
let  you  set  off  that  handsome  face — for  you  are  devilish  hand- 
some, and  that's  the  truth  of  it — with  some  of  the  French  gew- 
gaws you  women  love?  What  if  I  were?  would  you  be  a  good 
girl,  eh  ? " 

"I  think  I  would,  Dick, — I  think  I  would,"  replied  the 
woman,  showing  a  set  of  teeth  as  white  as  ivory,  with  pleasure 
partly  at  the  flattery,  partly  at  the  proposition  :  '"  you  are  a  good 
fellow,  Dick,  that  you  are." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Houseman,  whose  hard,  shrewd  mind  was 
not  easily  cajoled;  "but  what's  that  paper  in  your  bosom, 
Bess?  A  love-letter,  I'll  swear." 

'  'Tis  to  you,  th^n  ;  came  to  you  this  morning,  only  some- 
how or  other  I  forgot  to  give  it  you  till  now." 

"  Ha  !  a  letter  to  me  !  "  said  Houseman,  seizing  the  epistle 
in  question.  "Hem!  "the  Knaresbro'  postmark — my  mother- 
in-law's  crabbed  hand,  too  !  What  can  the  old  crone  want  ?  " 

He  opened  the  letter,  and  hastily  scanning  its  contents, 
started  up. 


266  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"  Mercy,  mercy  !  "  cried  he,  "my  child  is  ill — dying.  I  may 
never  see  her  again, — my  only  child, — the  only  thing  that  loves 
me, — that  does  not  loathe  me  as  a  villain  !" 

"  Heyday,  Dickey !  "  said  the  woman,  clinging  to  him, 
"  don't  take  on  so ;  who  so  fond  of  you  as  me  ? — what's  a  brat 
like  that  ? " 

"Curse  on  you,  hag  !"  exclaimed  Houseman,  dashing  her 
to  the  ground  with  a  rude  brutality  :  "you  love  me  !  Pah  ! 
My  child — my  little  Jane— my  pretty  Jane — my  merry  J;me — 
my  innocent  Jane — I  will  seek  her  instantly — instantly  !  What's 
money  ?  what's  ease, — if — if — " 

And  the  father,  wretch,  ruffian  as  he  was,  stung  to  the  core 
of  that  last  redeeming  feeling  of  his  dissolute  nature,  struck 
his  breast  with  his  clenched  hand  and  rushed  from  the  room — 
from  the  house. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MADELINE,  HER  HOPES. — A  WILD  AUTUMN  CHARACTERIZED. — A 
LANDSCAPE. — A  RETURN. 

"  'Tis  late,  and  cold — stir  up  the  fire, 
Sit  close,  and  draw  the  table  nigher  ; 
Be  merry  and  drink  wine  that's  old, 
A  hearty  medicine  'gainst  a  cold  : 
Welcome — welcome  shall  fly  round  !  " 
— BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER  :  Song  in  the  Lover's  Progress. 

As  when  the  great  poet, 

"  Escaped  the  Stygian  pool,  though  long  detained 
In  that  obscure  sojourn  ;  while,  in  his  flight, 
Through  utter  and  through  middle  darkness  borne, 
He  sang  of  chaos,  and  eternal  night  ": — 

as  when,  revisiting  the  "holy  light,  offspring  of  heaven  first- 
born," the  sense  of  freshness  and  glory  breaks  upon  him,  and 
kindles  into  the  solemn  joyfulness  of  adjuring  song  ;  so  rises 
the  mind  from  the  contemplation  of  the  gloom  and  guilt  of 
life,  "  the  utter  and  the  middle  darkness,"  to  some  pure  and 
bright  redemption  of  our  nature — some  creature  of  "the  starry 
threshold,"  "the  regions  mild  of  calm  and  serene  air."  Never 
was  a  nature  more  beautiful  and  soft  than  that  of  Madeline 
Lester — never  a  nature  more  inclined  to  live  "  above  the 
smoke  and  stir  of  this  dim  spot,  which  men  call  earth  "; — to 
commune  with  its  own  high  and  chaste  creations  of  thought — • 
to  make  a  world  out  of  the  emotions  which  this  world  knows 


EUGENE     ARAM.  261 

not — a  paradise,  which  sin,  and  suspicion,  and  fear,  had  never 
yet  invaded — where  God  might  recognize  no  evil,  and  angels 
forbode  no  change. 

Aram's  return  was  now  daily,  nay,  even  hourly,  expected. 
Nothing  disturbed  the  soft,  though  thoughtful  serenity,  with 
which  his  betrothed  relied  upon  the  future.  Aram's  letters  had 
been  more  deeply  impressed  with  the  evidence  of  love,  than 
even  his  spoken  vows  ;  those  letters  had  diffused  not  so  much 
an  agitated  joy,  as  a  full  and  mellow  light  of  happiness  over 
her  heart.  Everything,  even  nature,  seemed  inclined  to  smile 
with  approbation  on  her  hopes.  The  autumn  had  never,  in  the 
memory  of  man,  worn  so  lovely  a  garment :  the  balmy  and 
freshening  warmth  which  sometimes  characterizes  that  period 
of  the  year  was  not  broken,  as  yet,  by  the  chilling  winds,  or 
the  sullen  mists,  which  speak  to  us  so  mournfully  of  the 
change  that  is  creeping  over  the  beautiful  world.  The  summer 
visitants  among  the  feathered  tribe  yet  lingered  in  flocks,  show- 
ing no  intention  of  departure  ;  and  their  song — but  above  all, 
the  song  of  the  skylark — which,  to  the  old  English  poet,  was 
what  the  nightingale  is  to  the  Eastern — seemed  even  to  grow 
more  cheerful  as  the  sun  shortened  his  daily  task  ;  the  very 
mulberry-tree,  and  the  rich  boughs  of  the  horse-chestnut,  re- 
tained something  of  their  verdure  ;  and  the  thousand  glories  of 
the  woodland  around  Grassdale  were  still  chequered  with  the 
golden  hues  that  herald,  but  beautify,  decay.  Still  no  news 
had  been  received  of  Walter ;  and  this  was  the  only  source  of 
anxiety  that  troubled  the  domestic  happiness  of  the  manor- 
house.  But  the  squire  continued  to  remember  that  in  youth 
he  himself  had  been  but  a  negligent  correspondent ;  and  the 
anxiety  he  felt  had  lately  assumed  rather  the  character  of  anger 
at  Walter's  forgetfulness,  than  of  fear  for  his  safety.  There 
were  moments  when  Ellinor  silently  mourned  and  pined  ;  but 
she  loved  her  sister  not  less  even  than  her  cousin  ;  and  in  the 
prospect  of  Madeline's  happiness  did  not  too  often  question 
the  future  respecting  her  own. 

One  evening  the  sisters  were  sitting  at  their  work  by  the  win- 
dow of  the  little  parlor,  and  talking  over  various  matters  ;  of 
which  the  Great  World,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  never  made  a 
part. 

They  conversed  in  a  low  tone  ;  for  Lester  sat  by  the  hearth 
in  which  a  wood  fire  had  just  been  kindled,  and  appeared  to 
have  fallen  into  an  afternoon  slumber.  The  sun  was  sinking 
to  repose,  and  the  whole  landscape  lay  before  them  bathed  in 
light,  till  a  cloud  passing  overhead  darkened  the  heavens  just 


262  EUGENE     ARAM. 

immediately  above  them,  and  one  of  those  beautiful  sun  show- 
ers, that  rather  characterize  the  spring  than  autumn,  began  to 
fall  ;  the  rain  was  rather  sharp,  and  descended  with  a  pleasant 
and  freshening  noise  through  the  boughs,  all  shining  in  the 
sunlight ;  it  did  not,  however,  last  long,  and  presently  there 
sprang  up  the  glorious  rainbow,  and  the  voices  of  the  birds, 
which  a  minute  before  were  mute,  burst  into  a  general  chorus, — 
the  last  hymn  of  the  declining  day.  The  sparkling  drops  fell 
fast  and  gratefully  from  the  trees,  and  over  the  whole  scene 
there  breathed  an  inexpressible  sense  of  gladness, — 

"  The  odor  and  the  harmony  of  eve." 

"  How  beautiful  !  "  said  Ellinor,  pausing  from  her  work. 
"  Ah,  see  the  squirrel ;  is  that  our  pet  one  ? — he  is  coming  close 
to  the  window,  poor  fellow  !  Stay,  I  will  get  him  some  bread." 

"Hush  !  "  said  Madeline,  half  rising,  and  turning  quite  pale  ; 
"  do  you  hear  a  step  without  ?  " 

"Only  the  dripping  of  the  boughs,"  answered  Ellinor. 

"  No,  no —  it  is  he  !  it  is  he  !  "  cried  Madeline,  the  blood 
rushing  back  vividly  to  her  cheeks.  "  1  know  his  step  ! " 

And — yes — winding  round  the  house  till  he  stood  opposite 
the  window,  the  sisters  now  beheld  Eugene  Aram  :  the  dia- 
mond rain  glittered  on  the  locks  of  his  long  hair  ;  his  cheeks 
were  flushed  by  exercise,  or  more  probably  the  joy  of  return  ; 
a  smile,  in  which  there  was  no  shade  or  sadness,  played 
over  his  features  which  caught  also  a  fictitious  semblance  of 
gladness  from  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  which  fell  full  upon 
them. 

"  My  Madeline  !  my  love !  my  Madeline  !  "  broke  from  his 
lips. 

"You  are  returned — thank  God — thank  God — safe — well?" 

"  And  happy  ! "  added  Aram,  with  a  deep  meaning  in  the 
tone  of  his  voice. 

"  Heyday,  heyday  !  "  cried  the  squire,  starting  up,  "  what's 
this  ?  Bless  me,  Eugene  ! — wet  through,  too,  seemingly  !  Nell, 
run  and  open  the  door — more  wood  on  the  fire — the  pheasants 
for  supper — and  stay,  girl,  stay — there's  the  key  of  the  cellar — 
the  twenty-one  port — you  know  it.  Ah  !  ah  !  God  willing, 
Eugene  Aram  shall  not  complain  of  his  welcome  back  to  Grass- 
dale  !  " 


EUGENE     ARAM,  263 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

AFFECTION  :    ITS    GODLIKE    NATURE. — THE    CONVERSATION    BE- 
TWEEN ARAM  AND  MADELINE. — THE  FATALIST  FORGETS  FATE. 

"  Hope  is  a  lover's  staff  ;  walk  hence  with  that, 
And  manage  it  against  despairing  thoughts." 

—  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

IF  there  be  anything  thoroughly  lovely  in  the  human  heart, 
it  is  affection  !  All  that  makes  hope  elevated,  or  fear  generous, 
belongs  to  the  capacity  of  loving.  For  my  own  part,  I  do  not 
wonder,  in  looking  over  the  thousand  creeds  and  sects  of  men, 
that  so  many  religionists  have  traced  their  theology — that  so 
many  moralists  have  wrought  their  system — from  love.  The 
errors  thus  originated  have  something  in  them  that  charms  us, 
even  while  we  smile  at  the  theology,  or  while  we  neglect  the 
system.  What  a  beautiful  fabric  would  be  human  nature — 
what  a  divine  guide  would  be  human  reason — if  love  were  in- 
deed the  stratum  of  the  one,  and  the  inspiration  of  the  other  J 
We  are  told  of  a  picture  by  a  great  painter  of  old,  in  which  an 
infant  is  represented  sucking  a  mother  wounded  to  the  death, 
who,  even  in  that  agony,  strives  to  prevent  the  child  from  in- 
juring itself  by  imbibing  the  blood  mingled  with  the  milk.* 
How  many  emotions,  that  might  have  made  us  permanently 
wiser  and  better,  have  we  lost  in  losing  that  picture ! 

Certainly,  love  assumes  a  more  touching  and  earnest  sem- 
blance, when  we  find  it  in  some  retired  and  sequestered  hollow 
of  the  world  ;  when  it  is  not  mixed  up  with  the  daily  frivolities 
and  petty  emotions  of  which  a  life  passed  in  cities  is  so  neces- 
sarily composed  :  we  cannot  but  believe  it  a  deeper  and  a  more 
absorbing  passion  ;  perhaps  we  are  not  always  right  in  the 
belief. 

Had  one  of  that  order  of  angels  to  whom  a  knowledge  of  the 
future,  or  the  seraphic  penetration  into  the  hidden  heart  of  man 
is  forbidden,  stayed  his  wings  over  the  lovely  valley  in  which 
the  main  scene  of  our  history  has  been  cast,  no  spectacle  might 
have  seemed  to  him  more  appropriate  to  that  pastoral  spot,  or 
more  elevated  in  the  character  of  its  tenderness  above  the  fierce 
and  short-lived  passions  of  the  ordinary  world,  than  the  love 
that  existed  between  Madeline  and  her  betrothed.  Their 
natures  seemed  so  suited  to  each  other  !  the  solemn  and  undi- 
urnal  mood  of  the  one  was  reflected  back  in  hues  so  gentle,  and 

*  "  Intelligitur  sentire  mater  et  timere.  ne  e  mortuo  lacte  sanguinem  lambat." 


264  EUGENE     ARAM. 

yet  so  faithful,  from  the  purer,  but  scarce  less  thoughtful,  char- 
acter of  the  other  !  Their  sympathies  ran  through  the  same 
channel,  and  mingled  in  a  common  fount ;  and  whatever  was 
dark  and  troubled  in  the  breast  of  Aram,  v^as  now  suffered  not 
to  appear.  Since  his  return,  his  mood  was  brighter  and  more 
tranquil  ;  and  he  seemed  better  fitted  to  appreciate  and  respond 
to  the  peculiar  tenderness  of  Madeline's  affection.  There  are 
some  stars  which,  viewed  by  the  naked  eye,  seem  one,  but  in 
reality  are  two  separate  orbs  revolving  round  each  other,  and 
drinking,  each  from  each,  a  separate  yet  united  existence  : 
such  stars  seemed  a  type  of  them. 

Had  anything  been  wanting  to  complete  Madeline's  happi- 
ness, the  change  in  Aram  supplied  the  want.  The  sudden 
starts,  the  abrupt  changes  of  mood  and  countenance,  that  had 
formerly  characterized  him,  were  now  scarcely,  if  ever,  visible. 
He  seemed  to  have  resigned  himself  with  confidence  to  the 
prospects  of  the  future,  and  to  have  forsworn  the  haggard 
recollections  of  the  past ;  he  moved,  and  looked,  and  smiled 
like  other  men  ;  he  was  alive  to  the  little'circumstances  around 
him,  and  no  longer  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  a  separate 
and  strange  existence  within  himself.  Some  scattered  frag- 
ments of  his  poetry  bear  the  date  of  this  time  :  they  are  chiefly 
addressed  to  Madeline  ;  and,  amidst  the  vows  of  love,  a  spirit, 
sometimes  of  a  wild  and  bursting,  sometimes  of  a  profound 
and  collected,  happiness  are  visible.  There  is  great  beauty  in 
many  of  these  fragments,  and  they  bear  a  stronger  evidence  of 
heart — they  breathe  more  of  nature  and  truth,  than  the  poetry 
that  belongs  of  right  to  that  time. 

And  thus  day  rolled  on  day,  till  it  was  now  the  eve  before 
their  bridals.  Aram  had  deemed  it  prudent  to  tell  Lester  that 
he  had  sold  his  annuity,  and  that  he  had  applied  to  the  earl 
for  the  pension  which  we  have  seen  he  had  been  promised. 
As  to  his  supposed  relation — the  illness  he  had  created  he 
suffered  now  to  cease  ;  and  indeed  the  approaching  ceremony 
gave  him  a  graceful  excuse  for  turning  the  conversation  away 
from  any  topics  that  did  not  relate  to  Madeline,  or  to  that  event. 

It  was  the  eve  before  their  marriage  :  Aram  and  Madeline 
were  walking  along  the  valley  that  led  to  the  house  of  the 
former. 

"Ho\v  fortunate  it  is,"  said  Madeline,  "that  our  future  resi- 
dence will  be  so  near  my  father's.  I  cannot  tell  you  with  what 
delight  he  looks  forward  to  the  pleasant  circle  we  shall  make. 
Indeed,  I  think  he  \rould  scarcely  have  consented  to  our  wed- 
ding, if  it  had  separated  us  from  him." 


EUGENE     ARAM.  265 

Aram  stopped,  and  plucked  a  flower. 

"Ah!  indeed,  indeed,  Madeline.  Yet  in  the  course  of  the 
various  changes  of  life,  how  more  than  probable  it  is  that  we 
shall  be  divided  from  him — that  we  shall  leave  this  spot." 

"  It  is  possible,  certainly  ;  but  not  probable  :  is  it,  Eugene?" 

"Would  it  grieve  thee,  irremediably,  dearest,  were  it  so?" 
rejoined  Aram  evasively. 

"Irremediably!  What  could  grieve  me  irremediably  that 
did  not  happen  to  you  ?" 

"  Should,  then,  circumstances  occur  to  induce  us  to  leave 
this  part  of  the  country,  for  one  yet  more  remote,  you  could 
submit  cheerfully  to  the  change?" 

"  I  should  weep  for  my  father — I  should  weep  for  Ellinor  ; 
but—" 

"  But  what  ? " 

"I  should  comfort  myself  in  thinking  that  you  would  then 
be  yet  more  to  me  than  ever !  " 

"  Dearest  ! " 

"But  why  do  you  speak  thus;  only  to  try  me?  Ah  !  that  is 
needless." 

"  No,  my  Madeline ;  I  have  no  doubt  of  your  affection. 
When  you  loved  such  as  me,  I  knew  at  once  how  blind,  how 
devoted  must  be  that  love.  You  were  not  won  through  the 
usual  avenues  to  a  woman's  heart ;  neither  wit  nor  gayety,  nor 
youth  nor  beauty,  did  you  behold  in  me.  Whatever  attracted 
you  towards  me,  that  which  must  have  been  sufficiently  power- 
ful to  make  you  overlook  these  ordinary  allurements,  will  be 
also  sufficiently  enduring  to  resist  all  ordinary  changes.  But 
listen,  Madeline.  Do  not  yet  ask  me  wherefore ;  but  I  fear, 
that  a  certain  fatality  will  constrain  us  to  leave  this  spot  very 
shortly  after  our  wedding." 

"How  disappointed  my  poor  father  will  be  !"  said  Made- 
line, sighing. 

"  Do  not,  on  any  account,  mention  this  conversation  to  him, 
or  to  Ellinor:  'sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.'" 

Madeline  wondered,  but  said  no  more.  There  was  a  pause 
for  some  minutes. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  observed  Madeline,  "that  it  was  about 
here  we  met  that  strange  man  whom  you  had  formerly  known  ?" 

"Ha!  was  it?     Here,  was  it?" 

"What  has  become  of  him  ?" 

"He  is  abroad,  I  hope,"  said  Aram  calmly.  "Yes,  let  ma 
think  ;  by  this  time  he  must  be  in  France.  Dearest,  let  us  rest 
here  on  this  dry  mossy  bank  for  a  little  while  "  ;  and  Aram 


266  EUGENE    ARAM. 

drew  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and,  Iris  countenance  brighten- 
ing, as  if  with  some  thought  of  increasing  joy,  he  poured  out 
anew  those  protestations  of  love,  and  those  anticipations  of 
the  future,  which  befitted  the  eve  of  a  morrow  so  full  of  au- 
spicious promise. 

The  heaven  of  their  fate  seemed  calm  and  glowing,  and 
Aram  did  not  dream  that  the  one  small  cloud  of  fear  which 
was  set  within  it,  and  which  he  alone  beheld  afar,  and  unpro- 
phetic  of  the  storm,  was  charged  with  the  thunderbolt  of  a 
doom  he  had  protracted,  not  escaped. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WALTER    AND    THE    CORPORAL    ON    THE    ROAD. THE   EVENING 

SETS  IN. — THE  GIPSY  TENTS. — ADVENTURE  WITH  THE  HORSE- 
MAN.— THE  CORPORAL  DISCOMFITED,  AND  THE  ARRIVAL  AT 
KNARESBRO*. 

' '  Long  had  he  wandered,  when  from  far  he  sees 
A  ruddy  flame  that  gleam'd  betwixt  the  trees. 
....   Sir  Gawaine  prays  him  tell 
Where  lies  the  road  to  princely  Carduel." 

—  The  Knight  of  the  Sword. 

"  WELL,  Bunting,  we  are  not  far  from  our  night's  resting 
place,"  said  Walter,  pointing  to  a  milestone  on  the  road. 

"  The  poor  beast  will  be  glad  when  we  gets  there,  your 
honor,"  answered  the  corporal,  wiping  his  brows. 

"Which  beast,  Bunting?" 

"  Augh  ! — now  your  honor's  severe  !  I  am  glad  to  see  you 
so  merry." 

Walter  sighed  heavily ;  there  was  no  mirth  at  his  heart  at 
that  moment. 

"Pray,  sir,"  said  the  corporal,  after  a  pause,  "if  not  too  bold, 
has  your  honor  heard  how  they  be  doing  at  Grassdale?  " 

"  No,  Bunting  ;  I  have  not  held  any  correspondence  with  my 
uncle  since  our  departure.  Once  I  wrote  to  him  on  setting  off 
to  Yorkshire,  but  I  could  give  him  no  direction  to  write  to  me 
again.  The  fact  is,  that  I  have  been  so  sanguine  in  this  search, 
and  from  day  to  day  I  have  been  so  led  on  in  tracing  a  clue, 
which  I  fear  is  now  broken,  that  I  have  constantly  put  off  writ- 
ing till  I  could  communicate  that  certain  intelligence  which  I 
flattered  myself  I  should  be  able  ere  this  to  procure.  How- 
ever, if  we  are  unsuccessful  at  Knaresbro',  I  shall  write  from 
that  place  a  detailed  account  of  our  proceedings." 


fcUGENE      ARAif.  267 

"And  I  hopes  you  will  say  as  how  I  have  given  your  honor 
satisfaction." 

"  Depend  upon  that." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  thank  you  humbly  ;  I  would  not  like  the 
squire  to  think  I'm  ungrateful !  augh, — and  mayhap  I  may 
have  more  cause  to  be  grateful  by  and  by,  whenever  the  squire, 
God  bless  him  !  in  consideration  of  your  honor's  good  offices, 
should  let  me  have  the  bit  cottage  rent  free." 

"  A  man  of  the  world,  Bunting  ;  a  man  of  the  world  !  " 

"  Your  honor's  mighty  obleeging,"  said  the  corporal,  putting 
his  hand  to  his  hat ;  "  I  wonders,"  renewed  he,  after  a  short 
pause.  "  I  wonders  how  poor  neighbor  Dealtry  is.  He  was  a 
sufferer  last  year ;  I  should  like  to  know  how  Peter  be  getting 
on — 'tis  a  good  creature." 

Somewhat  surprised  at  this  sudden  sympathy  on  the  part  of 
the  corporal,  for  it  was  seldom  that  Bunting  expressed  kindness 
for  any  one,  Walter  replied  : 

"When  I  write,  Bunting,  I  will  not  fail  to  inquire  how  Peter 
Dealtry  is  ;  does  your  kind  heart  suggest  any  other  message  to 
him  ? " 

"Only  to  ask  arter  Jacobina,  poor  thing  :  she  might  get  her- 
self into  trouble  if  little  i  'eter  fell  sick  and  neglected  her  like — • 
augh  !  And  I  hopes  as  how  Peter  airs  the  bit  cottage  now  and 
then  ;  but  the  squire,  God  bless  him  !  will  see  to  that  and  the 
'tato  garden,  I'm  sure." 

"  You  may  rely  on  that,  Bunting,"  said  Walter,  sinking  into 
a  revery,  from  which  he  was  shortly  roused  by  the  corporal. 

"  I  s'pose  Miss  Madeline  be  married  afore  now,  your  honor  ? 
Well,  pray  Heaven  she  be  happy  with  that  ere  larned  man  !  " 

Walter's  heart  beat  faster  for  a  moment  at  this  sudden  re- 
mark, but  he  was  pleased  to  find  that  the  time  when  the  thought 
of  Madeline's  marriage  was  accompanied  with  painful  emotion 
was  entirely  gone  by  ;  the  reflection,  however,  induced  a  ne\v 
train  of  idea,  and  without  replying  to  the  corporal,  he  sank  into 
a  deeper  meditation  than  before. 

The  shrewd  Bunting  saw  that  it  was  not  a  favorable  moment 
for  renewing  the  conversation  ;  he  therefore  suffered  his  horse 
to  fall  back,  and  taking  a  quid  from  his  tobacco-box,  was  soon 
as  well  entertained  as  his  master.  In  this  manner  they  rode  on 
for  about  a  couple  of  miles,  the  evening  growing  darker  as 
they  proceeded,  when  a  green  opening  in  the  road  brought  them 
within  view  of  a  gipsy's  encampment  ;  the  scene  was  so  sudden 
and  picturesque,  that  it  aroused  the  young  traveller  from  his 
revery,  and  as  his  tired  horse  walked  slowly  on,  the  bridle 


268  EUGENE      ARAM. 

about  its  neck,  he  looked  with  an  earnest  eye  on  the  vagrant 
settlement  beside  his  path.  The  moon  had  just  risen  above  a 
dark  copse  in  the  rear,  and  cast  a  broad,  deep  shadow  along 
the  green,  without  lessening  the  vivid  effect  of  the  fires  which 
glowed  and  sparkled  in  the  darker  recess  of  the  waste  land,  as 
the  gloomy  forms  of  the  Egyptians  were  seen  dimly  cowering 
round  the  blaze.  A  scene  of'  this  sort  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the 
most  striking  that  the  green  lanes  of  old  England  afford  ;  to 
me  it  has  always  an  irresistible  attraction,  partly  from  its  own 
claims,  partly  from  those  of  association.  When  I  was  a  mere 
boy,  and  bent  on  a  solitary  excursion  over  parts  of  England 
and  Scotland,  I  saw  something  of  that  wild  people, — though 
not  perhaps  so  much  as  the  ingenious  George  Hanger,  to  whose 
memoirs  the  reader  may  be  referred  for  some  rather  amusing 
pages  on  gipsy  life.  As  Walter  was  still  eyeing  the  encamp- 
ment, he  in  return  had  not  escaped  the  glance  of  an  old  crone, 
who  came  running  hastily  up  to  him,  and  begged  permission  to 
tell  his  fortune  and  to  have  her  hand  crossed  with  silver. 

Very  few  men  under  thirty  ever  sincerely  refuse  an  offer  of 
this  sort.  Nobody  believes  in  these  predictions,  yet  every  one 
likes  hearing  them  :  and  Walter,  after  faintly  refusing  the  pro- 
posal twice,  consented  the  third  time  :  and  drawing  up  his 
horse,  submitted  his  hand  to  the  old  lady.  In  the  mean  while, 
one  of  the  younger  urchins  who  had  accompanied  her  had  run 
to  the  encampments  for  a  light,  and  now  stood  behind  the  old 
woman's  shoulder,  rearing  on  high  a  pine  brand,  which  cast 
over  the  little  group  a  red  and  weird-like  glow. 

The  reader  must  not  imagine  we  are  now  about  to  call  his 
credulity  in  aid  to  eke  out  any  interest  he  may  feel  in  our  story  ; 
the  old  crone  was  but  a  vulgar  gipsy,  and  she  predicted  to  Wal- 
ter the  same  fortune  she  always  predicted  to  those  who  paid  a 
shilling  for  the  prophecy  ;  an  heiress  with  blue  eyes — seven 
children — troubles  about  the  epoch  of  forty-three,  happily  soon 
over — and  a  healthy  old  age,  with  an  easy  death.  Though 
Walter  was  not  impressed  with  any  reverential  awe  for  these 
vaticinations,  he  yet  could  not  refrain  from  inquiring  whether 
the  journey  on  which  he  was  at  present  bent  was  likely  to  prove 
successful  in  its  object. 

'  'Tis  an  ill  night,"  said  the  old  woman,  lifting  up  her  wild 
face  and  elfin  locks  with  a  mysterious  air — "  'tis  an  ill  night 
for  them  as  seeks,  and  for  them  as  asks.  Hes  about — " 

"  He— who  ?  " 

"  No  matter  ! — you  may  be  successful,  young  sir,  yet  wish 
you  had  not  been  so.  The  moon  thus,  and  the  wind  there — - 


EUGENE     ARAM.  269 

promise    that    you    will    get    your    desires,    and   find    them 
crosses." 

The  corporal  had  listened  very  attentively  to  these  predic- 
tions, and  was  now  about  to  thrust  forth  his  own  hand  to  the 
soothsayer,  when  from  a  cross-road  to  the  right  came  the  sound 
of  hoofs,  and  presently  a  horseman  at  full  trot  pulled  up  beside 
them. 

"  Hark  ye,  old  she-devil,  or  you,  sirs — is  this  the  road  to 
Knaresbro'  ?" 

The  gipsy  drew  back,  and  gazed  on  the  countenance  of  the 
rider,  on  which  the  red  glare  of  the  pine-brand  shone  full. 

"  To  Knaresbro',  Richard  the  dare-devil  ?  Ay,  and  what 
does  the  ramping  bird  want  in  the  old  nest  ?  Welcome  back 
to  Yorkshire,  Richard,  my  ben  cove  !  " 

"  Ha  !  "  said  the  rider,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  as  he 
returned  the  gaze  of  the  gipsy — "is  it  you,  Bess  Airlie?  Your 
welcome  is  like  the  owl's,  and  reads  the  wrong  way.  But  I 
must  not  stop.  This  takes  to  Knaresbro',  then  ?" 

"Straight  as  a  dying  man's  curse  to  hell,"  replied  the  crone, 
in  that  metaphorical  style  in  which  all  her  tribe  love  to  speak, 
and  of  which  their  proper  language  is  indeed  almost  wholly  com- 
posed. 

The  horseman  answered  not,  but  spurred  on. 

"  Who  is  that  ? "  asked  Walter  earnestly,  as  the  old  woman 
stretched  her  tawny  neck  after  the  rider. 

"  An  old  friend,  sir,"  replied  the  Egyptian  drily.  "  I  have  not 
seen  him  these  fourteen  years  ;  but  it  is  not  Bess  Airlie  who  is 
apt  to  forgit  friend  or  foe.  Well,  sir,  shall  I  tell  your  honor's 
good  luck  ? " — (here  she  turned  to  the  corporal,  who  sat  erect 
on  his  saddle,  with  his  hand  on  his  holster) — "  the  color  of  the 
lady's  hair — and — " 

"Hold  your  tongue,  you  limb  of  Satan  !"  interrupted  the 
corporal  fiercely,  as  if  his  whole  tide  of  thought,  so  lately  fa- 
vorable to  the  soothsayer,  had  undergone  a  deadly  reversion. 
"  Please  your  honor,  it's  getting  late,  we  had  better  be  jog- 
ging •'" 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Walter,  spurring  his  jaded  horse  ;  and, 
nodding  his  adieu  to  the  gipsy,  he  was  soon  out  of  sight  of  the 
encampment. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  corporal,  joining  his  master,  "  that  is  a  man 
as  I  have  seed  afore  ;  I  knowed  his  ugly  face  again  in  a  crack — 
'tis  the  man  what  came  to  Grassdale  after  Mr.  Aram,  and  we 
saw  afterwards  the  night  we  chanced  on  Sir  Peter  Thingume- 
bob.' 


270  EUGENE    ARAM. 

"  Bunting,"  said  Walter,  in  a  low  voice, "  /too  have  been 
trying  to  recall  the  face  of  that  man,  and  I  too  am  persuaded 
I  have  seen  it  before.  A  fearful  suspicion,  amounting  almost 
to  conviction,  creeps  over  me,  that  the  hour  in  which  I  last 
saw  it  was  one  when  my  life  was  in  peril.  In  a  word.  I  do  be- 
lieve that  I  beheld  that  face  bending  over  me  on  the  night 
when  I  lay  under  the  hedge,  and  so  narrowly  escaped  murder ! 
If  I  am  right,  it  was,  however,  the  mildest  of  the  ruffians  ;  the 
one  who  counselled  his  comrades  against  despatching  me." 

The  corporal  shuddered. 

"Pray  sir,"  said  he,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "do  see  if  your 
pistols  are  primed  :  so — so.  'Tis  not  out  o'  nature  that  the 
man  may  have  some  'complices  hereabout,  and  may  think  to 
waylay  us.  The  old  gipsy,  too,  what  a  face  she  had  !  Depend 
on  it,  they  are  two  of  a  trade — augh  ! — bother  ! — waugh  !  " 

And  the  corporal  grunted  his  most  significant  grunt. 

"  It  is  not  at  all  unlikely,  Bunting  ;  and  as  we  are  now  not  far 
from  Knaresbro',  it  will  be  prudent  to  ride  on  as  fast  as  our 
horses  will  allow  us.  Keep  up  alongside." 

"Certainly,  I'll  purtect  your  honor,"  said  the  corporal,  get- 
ting on  that  side  where,  the  hedge  being  thinnest,  an  ambush 
was  less  likely  to  be  laid.  "  I  care  more  for  your  honor's 
safety  than  my  own,  or  what  a  brute  I  should  be — augh  ! 

The  master  and  man  trotted  on  for  some  little  distance, 
when  they  perceived  a  dark  object  moving  along  by  the  grass 
on  the  side  of  the  road.  The  corporal's  hair  bristled  ;  he  ut- 
tered an  oath,  which  he  mistook  for  a  prayer.  Walter  felt  his 
breath  grow  a  little  thick  as  he  watched  the  motions  of  the 
object  so  imperfectly  beheld  ;  presently,  however,  it  grew  into 
a  man  on  horseback,  trotting  very  slowly  along  the  grass  ;  and 
as  they  now  neared  him,  they  recognized  the  rider  they  had  just 
seen,  whom  they  might  have  imagined,  from  the  pace  at  which 
he  left  them  before,  to  have  been  considerably  ahead  of  them. 

The  horseman  turned  round  as  he  saw  them. 

"  Pray,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  great  and  evident 
anxiety,  "  how  far  is  it  to  Knaresbro'  ?  " 

"  Don't  answer  him,  your  honor."  whispered  the  corporal. 

"Probably,"  replied  Walter,  unheeding  this  advice,  "  you 
know  this  road  better  than  we  do.  It  cannot,  however,  be 
above  three  or  four  miles  hence." 

"  Thank  you,  sir ;  it  is  long  since  I  have  been  in  these  parts. 
I  used  to  know  the  country,  but  they  have  made  new  roads 
and  strange  enclosures,  and  I  now  scarcely  recognize  anything 
familiar.  Curse  on  this  brute  !  curse  on  it,  I  say  !"  repeated 


EUGENE      ARAM.  27! 

the  horseman  through  his  ground  teeth,  in  a  tone  of  angry 
vehemence  :  "  I  never  wanted  to  ride  so  quick  before,  and  the 
beast  has  fallen  as  lame  as  a  tree.  This  comes  of  trying  to  go 
faster  than  other  folks.  Sir,  are  you  a  father  ?" 

This  abrupt  question,  which  was  uttered  in  a  sharp,  strained 
voice,  a  little  startled  Walter.  He  replied  shortly  in  the  nega- 
tive, and  was  about  to  spur  onward,  when  the  horseman  con- 
tinued— and  there  was  something  in  his  voice  and  manner  that 
compelled  attention  : 

"  And  I  am  in  doubt  whether  I  have  a  child  or  not.  By 
G — !  it  is  a  bitter  gnawing  state  of  mind.  I  may  reach  Knares- 
bro'  to  find  my  only  daughter  dead,  sir ! — dead  !  " 

Despite  Walter's  suspicions  of  the  speaker,  he  could  not  but 
feel  a  thrill  of  sympathy  at  the  visible  distress  with  which  these 
words  were  said. 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  he  involuntarily. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  the  horseman,  trying  ineffectually 
to  spur  on  his  steed,  which  almost  came  down  at  the  effort  to 
proceed.  "  I  have  ridden  thirty  miles  acoss  the  country  at  full 
speed,  for  they  had  no  post-horses  at  the  d — d  place  where  I 
hired  this  brute.  This  was  the  only  creature  I  could  get  for 
love  or  money  ;  and  now  the  devil  only  knows  how  important 
every  moment  may  be.  While  I  speak,  my  child  may  breathe 
her  last  !  "  And  the  man  brought  his  clenched  fist  on  the 
shoulder  of  his  horse  in  mingled  spite  and  rage. 

"All  sham,  your  honor,"  whispered  the  corporal. 

"Sir,"  cried  the  horseman,  now  raising  his  voice,  "I  need 
not  have  asked  if  you  had  been  a  father  ;  if  you  had,  you  would 
have  had  compassion  on  me  ere  this  ;  you  would  have  lent  me 
your  own  horse." 

"  The  impudent  rogue  ! "  muttered  the  corporal. 

"  Sir,"  replied  Walter,  "  it  is  not  to  the  tale  of  every  stranger 
that  a  man  gives  belief." 

"  Belief  ! — ah,  well,  well,  'tis  no  matter,"  said  the  horseman 
sullenly.  "  There  was  a  time,  man,  when  I  would  have  forced 
what  I  now  solicit ;  but  my  heart's  gone.  Ride  on,  sir — ride 
on — and  the  curse  of — " 

"  If,"  interrupted  Walter  irresolutely,  "  if  I  could  believe 
your  statement  : — but  no.  Mark  me,  sir  :  I  have  reasons — 
fearful  reasons,  for  imagining  you  mean  this  but  as  a  snare  !  " 

"  Ha ! "  said  the  horseman  deliberately,  "  have  we  met  be- 
fore ? " 

"  I  believe  so." 

"  And  you  have  had  cause  to  complain  of  me  ?     It  may  be — it 


272  EUGENE     ARAM. 

may  be  :  but  were  the  grave  before  me,  and  if  one  lie  would 
smite  me  into  it,  I  solemnly  swear  that  I  now  utter  but  the 
naked  truth." 

"  It  would  be  folly  to  trust  him,  Bunting?"  said  Walter, 
turning  round  to  his  attendant. 

"  Folly  ! — sheer  madness — bother  !  " 

"  If  you  are  the  man  I  take  you  for,"  said  Walter,  "  you  once 
raised  your  voice  against  the  murder,  though  you  assisted  in 
the  robbery  of  a  traveller :  that  traveller  was  myself.  I  will 
remember  the  mercy — I  will  forget  the  outrage  ;  and  I  will  not 
believe  that  you  have  devised  this  tale  as  a  snare.  Take  my 
horse,  sir ;  I  will  trust  you." 

Houseman,  for  it  was  he,  flung  himself  instantly  from  his 
saddle.  "I  don't  ask  God  to  bless  you;  a  blessing  in  my 
mouth  would  be  worse  than  a  curse.  But  you  will  not  repent 
this  :  you  will  not  repent  it !" 

Houseman  said  these  few  words  with  a  palpable  emotion  : 
and  it  was  more  striking  on  account  of  the  evident  coarseness 
and  hardened  brutality  of  his  nature.  In  a  moment  more  he 
had  mounted  Walter's  horse,  and  turning  ere  he  sped  on,  in- 
quired at  what  place  at  Knaresborough  the  horse  should  be 
sent.  Walter  directed  him  to  the  principal  inn  ;  and  House- 
man, waving  his  hand,  and  striking  his  spurs  into  the  animal, 
wearied  as  it  was,  shot  out  of  sight  in  a  moment. 

*'  Well,  if  ever  I  seed  the  like  !  "  quoth  the  corporal.  "  Lira, 
lira,  la,  la,  la  !  lira,  lara,  la,  la,  la  ! — augh  ! — waugh  ! — bother!'' 

"  So  my  good  nature  does  not  please  you,  Bunting  ! " 

"  Oh,  sir,  it  does  not  signify  :  we  shall  have  our  throats  cut— 
that's  all." 

'  What,  you  don't  believe  the  story  ?  " 

'  I  ?     Bless  your  honor,  /  am  no  fool." 

'  Bunting  !  " 
Sir." 

You  forget  yourself." 
Augh  !  " 
So  you  don't  think  I  should  have  lent  the  horse  !  " 

"  Sartainly  not." 

"  On  occasions  like  these,  every  man  ought  to  take  care  of 
himself  ?  Prudence  before  generosity?  " 

"  Of  a  sartainty,  sir  !  " 

"  Dismount,  then, — I  want  my  horse.  You  may  shift  with 
the  lame  one." 

"  Augh,  sir, — baugh  ?  " 

"  Rascal,  dismount,  I  say  !  "  said  Walter  angrily  :    for  the 


EUGENE     ARAM.  273 

corporal  was  one  of  those  men  who  aim  at  governing  their 
masters  ;  and  his  selfishness  now  irritated  Walter  as  much  as 
his  impertinent  tone  of  superior  wisdom. 

The  corporal  hesitated.  He  thought  an  ambuscade  by  the 
road  of  certain  occurrence  ;  and  he  was  weighing  the  danger 
of  riding  a  lame  horse  against  his  master's  displeasure.  Walter, 
perceiving  he  demurred,  was  seized  with  so  violent  a  resent- 
ment that  he  dashed  up  to  the  corporal,  and  grasping  him  by 
the  collar,  swung  him,  heavy  as  he  was, — being  wholly  unpre- 
pared for  such  force, — to  the  ground. 

Without  deigning  to  look  at  his  condition,  Walter  mounted 
the  sound  horse,  and  throwing  the  bridle  of  the  lame  one  over  a 
bough,  left  the  corporal  to  follow  at  his  leisure. 

There  is  not,  perhaps,  a  more  sore  state  of  mind  than  that 
which  we  experience  when  we  have  committed  an  act  we 
meant  to  be  generous,  and  fear  to  be  foolish. 

"Certainly,"  said  Walter,  soliloquizing,  "certainly  the  man 
^  a  rascal  ;  yet  he  was  evidently  sincere  in  his  emotion.  Cer- 
tainly he  was  one  of  the  men  who  robbed  me  ;  yet,  if  so,  he 
was  also  the  one  who  interceded  for  my  life.  If  I  should  now 
have  given  strength  to  a  villain  ;  if  I  should  have  assisted  him 
to  an  outrage  against  myself  !  What  more  probable  ?  Yet  on 
the  other  hand,  if  his  story  be  true ;  if  his  child  be  dying, — 
and  if,  through  my  means,  he  obtain  a  last  interview  with  her ! 
"  Well,  well,  let  me  hope  so  !  " 

Here  he  was  joined  by  the  corporal,  who,  angry  as  he  was, 
judged  it  prudent  to  smother  his  rage  for  another  opportunity; 
and  by  favoring  his  master  with  his  company,  to  procure  himself 
an  ally  immediately  at  hand,  should  his  suspicions  prove  true. 
But  for  once  his  knowledge  of  the  world  deceived  him  ;  no 
sign  of  living  creature  broke  the  loneliness  of  the  way.  By 
and  by  the  lights  of  the  town  gleamed  upon  them  ;  and  on 
reaching  the  inn,  Walter  found  his  horse  had  been  already 
sent  there,  and,  covered  with  dust  and  foam,  was  submitting 
itself  to  the  tutelary  hands  of  the  hostler. 


374  EUGENE     ARAM. 


CHAPTER  X. 

WALTER'S  REFLECTIONS.— MINE  HOST. — A  GENTLE  CHARAC- 
TER AND  A  GREEN  OLD  AGE. — THE  GARDEN,  AND  THAT 
WHICH  IT  TEACHETH. — A  DIALOGUE  WHEREIN  NEW  HINTS 
TOWARDS  THE  WISHED-FOR  DISCOVERY  ARE  SUGGESTED. — 
THE  CURATE.— A  VISIT  TO  A  SPOT  OF  DEEP  INTEREST 
TO  THE  ADVENTURER. 

"  I  made  a  posy  while  the  day  ran  by, 

Here  will  I  smell  my  remnant  out,  and  tie 

My  life  within  this  band." — GEORGE  HERBERT. 

"...     The  time  approaches. 

That  will  with  due  precision  make  us  know 
What— "— Macbeth. 

THE  next  morning  Walter  rose  early,  and  descending  into 
the  court-yard  of  the  inn  he  there  met  with  the  landlord,  who — • 
a  hoe  in  his  hand — was  just  about  to  enter  a  little  gate  that 
led  into  the  garden.  He  held  the  gate  open  for  Walter. 

"  It  is  a  fine  morning,  sir  ;  would  you  like  to  look  into  the 
garden  ?  "  said  mine  host,  with  an  inviting  smile. 

Walter  accepted  the  offer,  and  found  himself  in  a  large  and 
well-stocked  garden,  laid  out  with  much  neatness  and  some 
taste :  the  landlord  halted  by  a  parterre  which  required  his 
attention,  and  Walter  walked  on  in  solitary  reflection. 

The  morning  was  serene  and  clear,  but  the  frost  mingled  the 
freshness  with  an  "  eager  and  nipping  air  ";  and  Walter  uncon- 
sciously quickened  his  step  as  he  paced  to  and  fro  the  straight 
walk  that  bisected  the  garden,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 
and  his  hat  over  his  brows. 

Now  then  he  had  reached  the  place  where  the  last  trace  of 
his  father  seemed  to  have  vanished ;  in  how  wayward  and 
strange  a  manner !  If  no  further  clue  could  be  here  discovered 
by  the  inquiry  he  purposed,  at  this  spot  would  terminate  his 
researches  and  his  hopes.  But  the  young  heart  of  the  traveller, 
was  buoyed  up  with  expectation.  Looking  back  to  the  events 
of  the  last  few  weeks,  he  thought  he  recognized  the  finger  of 
Destiny  guiding  him  from  step  to  step,  and  now  resting  on  the 
scene  to  which  it  had  brought  his  feet.  How  singularly  com- 
plete had  been  the  train  of  circumstance,  which,  linking  things 
seemingly  most  trifling,  most  dissimilar,  had  lengthened  into 
one  continuous  chain  of  evidence  !  the  trivial  incident  that  led 
him  to  the  saddler's  shop  ;  the  accident  that  brought  the  whip 


EUGENE     ARAM.  275 

that  had  been  his  father's  to  his  eye  ;  the  account  from  Court- 
land,  which  had  conducted  him  to  this  remote  part  of  the 
country  ;  and  now  the  narrative  of  Elmore  leading  him  to  the 
spot,  at  which  all  inquiry  seemed  as  yet  to  pause  !  Had  he 
been  led  hither  only  to  hear  repeated  that  strange  tale  of 
sudden  and  wanton  disappearance  ;  to  find  an  abrupt  wall,  a 
blank  and  impenetrable  barrier  to  a  course  hitherto  so  continu- 
ously guided  on  ?  Had  he  been  the  sport  of  Fate,  and  not  its 
instrument  ?  No  ;  he  was  filled  with  a  serious  and  profound 
conviction,  that  a  discovery  which  he  of  all  men  was  best  entitled 
by  the  unalienable  claims  of  blood  and  birth  to  achieve  was 
reserved  for  him,  and  that  this  grand  dream  of  childhood  was 
now  about  to  be  embodied  and  attained.  He  could  not  but  be 
sensible,  too,  that  as  he  had  proceeded  on  his  high  enterprise,  his 
character  had  acquired  a  weight  and  a  thoughtful  seriousness, 
which  was  more  fitted  to  the  nature  of  that  enterprise  than  akin 
to  his  earlier  temper.  This  consciousness  swelled  his  bosom 
with  a  profound  and  steady  hope.  When  Fate  selects  her 
human  agents,  her  dark  and  mysterious  spirit  is  at  work  within 
them  ;  she  moulds  their  hearts,  she  exalts  their  energies,  she 
shapes  them  to  the  part  she  has  allotted  them,  and  renders  the 
mortal  instrument  worthy  of  the  solemn  end. 

Thus  chewing  the  cud  of  his  involved  and  deep  reflections, 
the  young  adventurer  paused  at  last  opposite  his  host,  who  was 
still  bending  over  his  pleasant  task,  and  every  now  and  then, 
excited  by  the  exercise  and  the  fresh  morning  air,  breaking  into 
snatches  of  some  old  rustic  song.  The  contrast  in  mood 
between  himself  and  this 

"  Unvex'd  loiterer  by  the  world's  green  way," 

struck  forcibly  upon  him.  Mine  host,  too,  was  one  whose 
appearance  was  better  suited  to  his  occupation  than  his  pro- 
fession. He  might  have  told  some  three-and-sixty  years,  but 
it  was  a  comely  and  green  old  age  ;  his  cheek  was  firm  and 
ruddy,  not  with  nightly  cups,  but  the  fresh  witness  of  the 
morning  breezes  it  was  wont  to  court ;  his  frame  was  robust, 
not  corpulent ;  and  his  long  gray  hair,  which  fell  almost  to 
his  shoulders,  his  clear  blue  eyes,  and  a  pleasant  curve  in  a 
mouth  characterized  by  habitual  good-humor,  completed  a 
portrait  that  even  many  a  dull  observer  would  have  paused  to 
gaze  upon.  And,  indeed,  the  good  man  enjoyed  a  certain 
kind  of  reputation  for  his  comely  looks  and  cheerful  manner. 
His  picture  had  even  been  taken  by  a  young  artist  in  the 
neighborhood ;  nay,  the  likeness  had  been  multiplied  into 


276  EUGENE     ARAM. 

engravings,  somewhat  rude  and  somewhat  unfaithful,  which 
might  be  seen  occupying  no  unconspicuous  nor  dusty  corner  in 
in  the  principal  printshopof  the  town  :  nor  was  mine  host's  char- 
acter a  contradiction  to  his  looks.  He  had  seen  enough  of  life 
to  be  intelligent,  and  had  judged  it  rightly  enough  to  be  kind. 
He  had  passed  that  line  so  nicely  given  to  man's  codes  in 
those  admirable  pages  which  first  added  delicacy  of  tact  to 
the  strong  sense  of  English  composition.  "We  have  just 
religion  enough,"  it  is  said  somewhere  in  The  Spectator,  "to 
make  us  hate,  but  not  enough  to  make  us  love,  one  another." 
Our  good  landlord,  peace  be  with  his  ashes  !  had  never  halted 
at  this  limit.  The  country  innkeeper  might  have  furnished 
Goldsmith  with  a  counterpart  to  his  country  curate  ;  his  house 
was  equally  hospitable  to  the  poor — his  heart  equally  tender, 
in  a  nature  wiser  than  experience,  to  error,  and  equally  open, 

in  its  warm  simplicity,  to  distress.     Peace  be  with  thee, ! 

Our  grandsire  was  thy  patron — yet  a  patron  thou  didst 
not  want.  Merit  in  thy  capacity  is  seldom  bare  of  reward. 
The  public  want  no  indicators  to  a  house  like  thine.  And 
who  requires  a  third  person  to  tell  him  how  to  appreciate  the 
value  of  good  nature  and  good  cheer? 

As  Walter  stood  and  contemplated  the  old  man  bending 
over  the  sweet  fresh  earth  (and  then,  glancing  round,  saw  the 
quiet  garden  stretching  away  on  either  side  with  its  boundaries 
lost  among  the  thick  evergreen),  something  of  that  grateful 
and  moralizing  stillness  with  which  some  country  scene  gener- 
ally inspires  us,  when  we  awake  to  its  consciousness  from  the 
troubled  dream  of  dark  and  unquiet  thought,  stole  over  his 
mind;  and  certain  old  lines  which  his  uncle,  who  loved  the 
soft  and  rustic  morality  that  pervades  the  ancient  race  of 
English  minstrels,  had  taught  him,  when  a  boy,  came  pleas' 
antly  into  his  recollection  : 

"  With  all,  as  in  some  rare  limned  book,  we  see 
Here  painted  lectures  of  God's  sacred  will. 
The  daisy  teacheth  lowliness  of  mind  ; 
The  camomile,  we  should  be  patient  still ; 
The  rue,  our  hate  of  vice's  poison  ill ; 
The  woodbine,  that  we  should  our  friendship  hold ; 
Our  hope  the  savory  in  the  bitterest  cold."* 

The  old  man  stopped  from  his  work,  as  the  musing  figure  of 
his  guest  darkened  the  prospect  before  him,  and  said: 

"A  pleasant  time,  sir,  for  the  gardener ! " 

"  Ay,  is  it  so  ?  You  must  miss  the  fruits  and  flowers  of 
summer," 

*  Henry  Feacham. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  277 

"Well,  sir, — but  we  are  now  paying  back  the  garden  for  the 
good  things  it  has  given  us.  It  is  like  taking  care  of  a  friend 
in  old  age,  who  has  been  kind  to  us  when  he  was  young." 

Walter  smiled  at  the  quaint  amiability  of  the  idea. 

"Tis  a  winning  thing,  sir,  a  garden  !  It  brings  us  an  object 
every  day ;  and  that's  what  I  think  a  man  ought  to  have  if  he 
wishes  to  lead  a  happy  life." 

u  It  is  true,"  said  Walter ;  and  mine  host  was  encouraged  to 
continue  by  the  attention  and  affable  countenance  of  the  stran- 
ger, tor  he  was  a  physiognomist  in  his  way. 

"  And  then,  sir,  we  have  no  disappointment  in  these  objects  ; 
the  soil  is  not  ungrateful  as  they  say  men  are — though  I  have 
not  often  found  them  so,  by  the  by.  What  we  sow  we  reap. 
I  have  an  old  book,  sir,  lying  in  my  little  parlor,  all  about  fish- 
ing, and  full  of  so  many  pretty  sayings  about  a  country  life,  and 
meditation,  and  so  forth  that  it  does  one  as  much  good  as  a 
sermon  to  look  into  it.  But  to  my  mind,  all  those  sayings  are 
more  applicable  to  a  gardener's  life  than  a  fisherman's." 

"  It  is  a  less  cruel  life,  certainly,"  said  Walter. 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  and  then  the  scenes  one  makes  one's  self,  the 
flowers  one  plants  with  one's  own  hand,  one  enjoys  more  than 
all  the  beauties  which  don't  owe  us  anything  :  at  least  so  it 
seems  to  me.  I  have  always  been  thankful  to  the  accident  that 
made  me  take  to  gardening." 

"And  what  was  that?" 

"  Why,  sir,  you  must  know  there  was  a  great  scholar,  though 
he  was  but  a  youth  then,  living  in  this  town  some  years  ago, 
and  he  was  very  curious  in  plants,  and  flowers,  and  such  like. 
I  have  heard  the  parson  say  he  knew  more  of  those  innocent 
matters  than  any  man  in  this  county.  At  that  time  I  was  not 
in  so  flourishing  a  way  of  business  as  I  am  at  present.  I  kept 
a  little  inn  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town  ;  and  having  formerly 

been  a  gamekeeper  of  my  Lord 's,  I  was  in  the  habit  of 

eking  out  my  little  profits  by  accompanying  gentlemen  in  fish- 
ing or  snipe-shooting.  So  one  day,  sir,  I  went  out  fishing  with 
a  strange  gentleman  from  London,  and,  in  a  very  quiet  retired 
spot  some  miles  off,  he  stopped  and  plucked  some  herbs  that 
seemed  tome  common  enough,  but  which  he  declared  were  most 
curious  and  rare  things,  and  he  carried  them  carefully  away. 
I  heard  afterwards  he  was  a  great  herbalist,  I  think  they  call  it, 
but  he  was  a  very  poor  fisher.  Well,  sir,  I  thought  the  next 
morning  of  Mr.  Aram,  our  great  scholar  and  botanist,  and  fan- 
cied it  would  please  him  to  know  of  these  bits  of  grass  :  so  I 
went  and  called  upon  him,  and  begged  leave  to  go  and  show 


278  EUGENE     ARAM. 

the  spot  to  him.  So  we  walked  there  ;  and  certainly,  sir,  of  all 
the  men  that  ever  I  saw,  I  never  met  one  that  wound  round 
your  heart  like  this  same  Eugene  Aram.  He  was  then  ex- 
ceedingly poor,  but  he  never  complained  ;  and  was  much  too 
proud  for  any  one  to  dare  to  offer  him  relief.  He  lived  quite 
alone,  and  usually  avoided  every  one  in  his  walks  ;  but,  sir, 
there  was  something  so  engaging  and  patient  in  his  manner, 
and  his  voice,  and  his  pale,  mild  countenance,  which,  young 
as  he  was  then,  for  he  was  not  a  year  or  two  above  twenty,  was 
marked  with  sadness  and  melancholy,  that  it  quite  went  to 
your  heart  when  you  met  him  or  spoke  to  him.  Well,  sir,  we 
walked  to  the  place,  and  very  much  delighted  he  seemed  with 
the  green  things  I  showed  him  ;  and  as  I  was  always  of  a  com- 
municative temper — rather  a  gossip,  sir,  my  neighbors  say — I 
made  him  smile  now  and  then  by  my  remarks.  He  seemed 
pleased  with  me,  and  talked  to  me  going  home  about  flowers, 
and  gardening,  and  such  like  ;  and  sure  it  was  better  than  a 
book  to  hear  him.  And  after  that,  when  we  came  across  one 
another,  he  would  not  shun  me  as  he  did  others,  but  let  me 
stop  and  talk  to  him  ;  and  then  I  asked  his  advice  about  a  wee 
farm  I  thought  of  taking,  and  he  told  me  many  curious  things 
which,  sure  enough,  I  found  quite  true,  and  brought  me  in 
afterwards  a  deal  of  money.  But  we  talked  much  about  gar- 
dening, for  I  loved  to  hear  him  talk  on  those  matters  ;  and  so, 
sir,  I  was  struck  by  all  he  said,  and  could  not  rest  till  I  took  to 
gardening  myself,  and  ever  since  I  have  gone  on,  more  pleased 
with  it  every  day  of  my  life.  Indeed,  sir,  I  think  these  harm- 
less pursuits  make  a  man's  heart  better  and  kinder  to  his  fellow- 
creatures;  and  I  always  take  more  pleasure  in  reading  the  Bible, 
specially  the  New  Testament,  after  having  spent  the  day  in  the 
garden.  Ah,  well,  I  should  like  to  know  what  has  become  of  that 
poor  gentleman." 

"  I  can  relieve  your  honest  heart  about  him.      Mr.  Aram  is 

living  in ,  well  off  in  the   world,   and   universally   liked; 

though  he  still  keeps  to  his  old  habits  of  reserve." 

"  Ay,  indeed,  sir  !  I  have  not  heard  anything  that  pleased 
me  more  this  many  a  day." 

"  Pray,"  said  Walter,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  do  you  re- 
member the  circumstance  of  a  Mr.  Clarke  appearing  in  this 
town,  and  leaving  it  in  a  very  abrupt  and  mysterious  man- 
ner ?  " 

"Do  I  mind  it,  sir?  Yes,  indeed.  It  made  a  great  noise 
in  Knaresbro' — there  were  many  suspicions  of  foul  play  about 
it.  For  my  part,  I,  too,  had  my  thoughts,  but  that's  neithei 


ARAJL  £79 

here  nor  there",  and  the  old  man  recommenced  weeding  with 
great  diligence. 

"  My  friend,"  said  Walter,  mastering  his  emotion,  "  you 
would  serve  me  more  deeply  than  I  can  express,  if  you  would 
give  me  any  information,  any  conjecture  respecting  this — this 
Mr.  Clarke.  I  have  come  hither,  solely  to  make  inquiry  after 
his  fate  :  in  a  word,  he  is — or  was — a  near  relative  of  mine  !  " 

The  old  man  looked  wistfully  in  Walter's  face.  "  Indeed," 
said  he  slowly,  "  you  are  welcome,  sir,  to  all  I  know  ;  but  that 
is  very  little,  or  nothing  rather.  But  will  you  turn  up  this 
walk,  sir  ?  it's  more  retired.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  one  Rich- 
ard Houseman  ? " 

"  Houseman  !  yes.  He  knew  my  poor — I  mean  he  knew 
Clarke  :  he  said  Clarke  was  in  his  debt  when  he  left  the 
town  so  suddenly." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  mysteriously,  and  looked 
round.  "  I  will  tell  you,"  said  he,  laying  his  hand  on  Walter's 
arm,  and  speaking  in  his  ear  ;  "  I  would  not  accuse  any  one 
wrongfully,  but  I  have  my  doubts  that  Houseman  murdered 
him." 

"  Great  God  !  "  murmured  Walter,  clinging  to  a  post  for  sup- 
port. "  Go  on — heed  me  not — heed  me  not — for  mercy's  sake 
go  on." 

"Nay,  I  know  nothing  certain — nothing  certain,  believe 
me,"  said  the  old  man,  shocked  at  the  effect  his  words  had  pro- 
duced :  "  it  may  be  better  than  I  think  for,  and  my  reasons 
are  not  very  strong,  but  you  shall  hear  them.  Mr.  Clarke,  you 
know,  came  to  this  town  to  receive  a  legacy — you  know  the 
particulars  ?  " 

Walter  impatiently  nodded  assent. 

"  Well,  though  he  seemed  in  poor  health,  he  was  a  lively, 
careless  man,  who  liked  any  company  who  would  sit  and  tell 
stories,  and  drink  o1  nights  ;  not  a  silly  man  exactly,  but  a 
weak  one.  Now  of  all  the  idle  persons  of  this  town,  Richard 
Houseman  was  the  most  inclined  to  this  way  of  life.  He  had 
been  a  soldier — had  wandered  a  good  deal  about  the  world — • 
was  a  bold,  talking,  reckless  fellow — of  a  character  thoroughly 
profligate  ;  and  there  were  many  stories  afloat  about  him, 
though  none  were  clearly  made  out.  In  short,  he  was  suspect- 
ed of  having  occasionally  taken  to  the  high  road  ;  and  a 
stranger,  who  stopped  once  at  my  little  inn,  assured  me  private- 
ly that,  though  he  could  not  positively  swear  to  his  person,  he 
felt  convinced  that  he  had  been  stopped  a  year  before  on  the 
London  road  by  Houseman.  Notwithstanding  all  this,  as 


2&0  EUGENE     ARAM. 

Houseman  had  some  respectable  connections  in  the  town—- 
among his  relations,  by  the  by,  was  Mr.  Aram — as  he  was  a 
thoroughly  boon  companion — a  good  shot — a  bold  rider — ex- 
cellent at  a  song,  and  very  cheerful  and  merry,  he  was  not 
without  as  much  company  as  he  pleased  ;  and  the  first  night 
he  and  Mr.  Clarke  came  together,  they  grew  mighty  intimate  ; 
indeed  it  seemed  as  if  they  had  met  before.  On  the  night 
Mr.  Clarke  disappeared,  I  had  been  on  an  excursion  with  some 
gentlemen  ;  and  in  consequence  of  the  snow  which  had  been 
heavy  during  the  latter  part  of  the  day,  I  did  not  return  to 
Knaresbro'  till  past  midnight.  In  walking  through  the  town, 
I  perceived  two  men  engaged  in  earnest  conversation  :  one  of 
them,  I  am  sure,  was  Clarke  ;  the  other  was  wrapped  up  in  a 
great-coat,  with  the  cape  over  his  face  ;  but  the  watchman  had 
met  the  same  man  alone  at  an  earlier  hour,  and,  putting  aside 
the  cape,  perceived  that  it  was  Houseman.  No  one  else  was 
seen  with  Clarke  after  that  hour." 

"But  was  not  Houseman  examined?" 

"Slightly;  and  deposed  that  he  had  been  spending  the 
night  with  Eugene  Aram  ;  that  on  leaving  Aram's  house,  he 
met  Clarke,  and  wondering  that  he,  the  latter,  an  invalid, 
should  be  out  at  so  late  an  hour,  he  walked  some  way  with 
him,  in  order  to  learn  the  cause  ;  but  that  Clarke  seemed  con- 
fused, and  was  reserved,  and  on  his  guard,  and  at  last  wished 
him  good-by  abruptly,  and  turned  away.  That  he,  House- 
man, had  no  doubt  he  left  the  town  that  night,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  defrauding  his  creditors,  and  making  off  with  some 
jewels  he  had  borrowed  from  Mr.  Elmore." 

"But,  Aram — was  this  suspicious,  nay,  abandoned  charac- 
ter— this  Houseman — intimate  with  Aram?" 

"  Not  at  all ;  but  being  distantly  related,  and  Houseman 
being  a  familiar,  pushing  sort  of  a  fellow,  Aram  could  not,  per- 
haps, always  shake  him  off ;  and  Aram  allowed  that  House- 
man had  spent  the  evening  with  him." 

"And  no  suspicion  rested  on  Aram  ?" 

The  host  turned  round  in  amazement.  "  Heavens  above, 
no  !  One  might  as  well  suspect  the  lamb  of  eating  the  wolf ! " 

But  not  thus  thought  Walter  Lester  :  the  wild  words  occa- 
sionly  uttered  by  the  student — his  lone  habits — his  frequent 
starts  and  colloquy  with  self,  all  of  which  had,  even  from  the 
first,  it  has  been  seen,  excited  Walter's  suspicion  of  former 
guilt,  that  had  murdered  the  mind's  wholesome  sleep,  now 
rushed  with  tenfold  force  upon  his  memory. 

"But    no    other    circumstance    transpired?     Is   this   your 


EUGENE     ARAM.  281 

whole  ground  for  suspicion  ;  the  mere  circumstance  of  House- 
man's being  last  seen  with  Clarke?" 

"Consider  also  the  dissolute  and  bold  character  of  House- 
man. Clarke  evidently  had  his  jewels  and  money  with  him — 
they  were  not  left  in  the  house.  What  a  temptation  to  one 
who  was  more  than  suspected  of  having  in  the  course  of  his 
life  taken  to  plunder !  Houseman  shortly  afterwards  left  the 
country.  He  has  never  returned  to  the  town  since,  though  his 
daughter  lives  here  with  his  wife's  mother,  and  has  occasionally 
gone  up  to  town  to  see  him." 

"And  Aram — he  also  left  Knaresbro*  soon  after  this  mys- 
terious event?" 

"  Yes  !  an  old  aunt  at  York,  who  had  never  assisted  him 
during  her  life,  died  and  bequeathed  him  a  legacy,  about  a 
month  afterwards.  On  receiving  it,  he  naturally  went  to  Lon- 
don— the  best  place  for  such  clever  scholars." 

"Ha  !  But  are  you  sure  that  the  aunt  died?  that  the  legacy 
was  left  ?  Might  this  be  no  tale  to  give  an  excuse  to  the  spend- 
ing of  money  otherwise  acquired  ?  " 

Mine  host  looked  almost  with  anger  on  Walter. 
"  It  is  clear,"  said  he,  "  you  know  nothing  of  Eugene  Aram, 
or  you  would  not  speak  thus.  But  I  can  satisfy  your  doubts 
on  this  head.  I  knew  the  old  lady  well,  and  my  wife  was  at 
York  when  she  died.  Besides,  every  one  here  knows  some- 
thing of  the  will,  for  it  was  rather  an  eccentric  one." 

Walter  paused  irresolutely.  "  Will  you  accompany  me,"  he 
asked,  "to  the  house  in  which  Mr.  Clarke  lodged, — and,  in- 
deed, to  any  other  place  where  it  may  be  prudent  to  institute 
inquiry?  " 

"Certainly,  sir,  with  the  biggest  pleasure,"  said  mine  host; 
"  but  you  must  first  try  my  dame's  butter  and  eggs.  It  is  time 
to  breakfast." 

We  may  suppose  that  Walter's  simple  meal  was  soon  over ; 
and  growing  impatient  and  restless  to  commence  his  inquiries, 
he  descended  from  his  solitary  apartment  to  the  little  back- 
room behind  the  bar,  in  which  he  had,  on  the  night  before, 
seen  mine  host  and  his  better  half  at  supper.  It  was  a  snug, 
small,  wainscoted  room  ;  fishing-rods  were  neatly  arranged 
against  the  wall,  which  was  also  decorated  by  a  portrait  of  the 
landlord  himself,  two  old  Dutch  pictures  of  fruit  and  game,  a 
long,  quaint-fashioned  fowling-piece,  and,  opposite  the  fire- 
place, a  noble  stag's  head  and  antlers.  On  the  window-seat 
lay  the  Izaak  Walton  to  which  the  old  man  had  referred  ;  the 
Family  Bible,  with  its  green  baize  cover,  and  the  frequent 


•2%2  EUGENE     ARAM. 

marks  peeping  out  from  its  venerable  pages  ;  and,  close  nest- 
ing to  it,  recalling  that  beautiful  sentence,  "  Suffer  the  little 
children  to  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not,"  several  of 
those  little  volumes  with  gay  binding,  and  marvellous  contents 
of  fay  and  giant,  which  delight  the  hearth-spelled  urchin,  and 
which  were  "  the  source  of  golden  hours  "  to  the  old  man's 
grandchildren,  in  their  respite  from  "learning's  little  tene- 
ments,"— 

"  Where  sits  the  dame,  disguised  in  look  profound, 
And  eyes  her  fairy  throng,  and  turns  her  wheel  around,"* 

Mine  host  was  still  employed  by  a  huge  brown  loaf  and  some 
baked  pike  ;  and  mine  hostess,  a  quiet  and  serene  old  lady,  was 
alternately  regaling  herself  and  a  large  brindled  cat  from  a 
plate  of  "  toasten  cheer." 

While  the  old  man  was  hastily  concluding  his  repast,  a  little 
knock  at  the  door  was  heard,  and  presently  an  elderly  gentle- 
man in  black  put  his  head  into  the  room,  and,  perceiving  the 
stranger,  would  have  drawn  back  ;  but  both  landlady  and  land- 
lord, bustling  up,  entreated  him  to  enter  by  the  appellation  of 
Mr.  Summers.  And  then,  as  the  gentleman  smilingly  yielded 
to  the  invitation,  the  landlady  turning  to  Walter  said  :  "  Our 
clergyman,  sir  :  and  though  I  say  it  afore  his  face,  there  is  not 
a  man  who,  if  Christian  vartues  were  considered,  ought  so  soon 
to  be  a  bishop." 

"  Hush  !  my  good  lady,"  said  Mr.  Summers,  laughing  as  he 
bowed  to  Walter.  "You  see,  sir,  that  it  is  no  trifling  advan- 
tage to  a  Knaresbro'  reputation  to  have  our  hostess's  good 
word.  But,  indeed,"  turning  to  the  landlady,  and  assuming  a 
grave  and  impressive  air,  "  I  have  little  mind  for  jesting  now. 
You  know  poor  Jane  Houseman, — a  mild,  quiet,  blue-eyed 
creature, — she  died  at  daybreak  this  morning!  Her  father 
had  come  from  London  expressly  to  see  her :  she  died  in  his 
arms,  and,  I  hear,  he  is  almost  in  a  state  of  frenzy." 

The  host  and  hostess  signified  their  commiseration.  "  Poor 
little  girl !  "  said  the  latter,  wiping  her  eyes  ;  "  hers  was  a  hard 
fate,  and  she  felt  it,  child  as  she  was.  Without  the  care  of  a 
mother — and  such  a  father  !  Yet  he  was  fond  of  her." 

"  My  reason  for  calling  on  you  was  this,"  renewed  the  cler- 
gyman, addressing  the  host :  "  you  knew  Houseman  formerly  ; 
me  he  always  shunned,  and,  I  fancy,  ridiculed.  He  is  in  dis- 
tress now,  and  all  that  is  forgotten.  Will  you  seek  him,  and 
inquire  if  anything  in  my  power  can  afford  him  consolation? 

*  Shenstone's  Schwlmistrets. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  283 

He  may  be  poor:  /can  pay  for  the  poor  child's  burial.  I 
loved  her ;  she  was  the  best  girl  at  Mrs.  Summers's  school. 

"  Certainly,  sir,  I  will  seek  him,"  said  the  landlord,  hesitating  ; 
and  then,  drawing  the  clergyman  aside,  he  informed  him  in  a 
whisper  of  his  engagement  with  Walter,  and  with  the  present 
pursuit  and  meditated  inquiry  of  his  guest ;  not  forgetting  to 
insinuate  his  suspicion  of  the  guilt  of  the  man  whom  he  was 
now  called  upon  to  compassionate. 

The  clergyman  mused  a  little  ;  and  then,  approaching  Wal- 
ter, offered  his  services  in  the  stead  of  the  publican  in  so  frank 
and  cordial  a  manner  that  Walter  at  once  accepted  them. 

"  Let  us  come  now,  then,"  said  the  good  curate — for  he  was 
but  the  curate — seeing  Walter's  impatience  ;  "and  first  we  will 
go  to  the  house  in  which  Clarke  lodged  ;  I  know  it  well." 

The  two  gentlemen  now  commenced  their  expedition.  Sum- 
mers was  no  contemptible  antiquary;  and  he  sought  to  beguile 
the  nervous  impatience  of  his  companion  by  dilating  on  the  at- 
tractions of  the  ancient  and  memorable  town  to  which  his  pur- 
pose had  brought  him. 

"  Remarkable,"  said  the  curate,  "alike  in  history  and  tradi- 
tion :  look  yonder"  (pointing  above,  as  an  opening  in  the  road 
gave  to  view  the  frowning  and  beetled  ruins  of  the  shattered 
castle)  ;  "  you  would  be  at  some  loss  to  recognize  now  the 
truth  of  old  Leland's  description  of  that  once  stout  and  gallant 
bulwark  of  the  North,  when  he  '  numbrid  n  or  12  towres  in 
the  walles  of  the  castel,  and  one  very  fayre  beside  in  the  sec- 
ond area.'  In  that  castle,  the  four  knightly  murderers  of  the 
haughty  Becket  (the  Wolsey  of  his  age)  remained  for  a  whole 
year,  defying  the  weak  justice  of  the  times.  There,  too,  the 
unfortunate  Richard  the  Second — the  Stuart  of  the  Planta- 
genets — passed  some  portion  of  his  bitter  imprisonment.  And 
there,  after  the  battle  of  Marston  Moor,  waved  the  banners  of 
the  loyalists  against  the  soldiers  of  Lilburne.  It  was  made 
yet  more  touchingly  memorable  at  that  time,  as  you  may  have 
heard,  by  an  instance  of  filial  piety.  The  town  was  greatly 
straitened  for  want  of  provisions ;  a  youth,  whose  father  was 
in  the  garrison,  was  accustomed  nightly  to  get  into  the  deep 
dry  moat,  climb  up  the  glacis,  and  put  provisions  through  a 
hole,  where  the  father  stood  ready  to  receive  them.  He  was 
perceived  at  length  ;  the  soldiers  fired  on  him.  He  was  taken 
prisoner  and  sentenced  to  be  hanged  in  sight  of  the  besieged, 
in  order  to  strike  terror  into  those  who  might  be  similarly  dis- 
posed to  render  assistance  to  the  garrison.  Fortunately,  how- 
ever, this  disgrace  was  spared  the  memory  of  Lilburne  and  the 


284  EUGENE     ARAM. 

republican  arms.  With  great  difficulty,  a  certain  lady  obtained 
his  respite  ;  and  after  the  conquest  of  the  place,  and  the  de- 
parture of  the  troops,  the  adventurous  son  was  released." 

"  A  fit  subject  for  your  local  poets,"  said  Walter,  whom  stories 
of  this  sort,  from  the  nature  of  his  own  enterprise,  especially 
affected. 

"Yes  ;  but  we  boast  but  few  minstrels  since  the  young  Aram 
left  us.  The  castle  then,  once  the  residence  of  John  of  Gaunt, 
was  dismantled  and  destroyed.  Many  of  the  houses  we  shall 
pass  have  been  built  from  its  massive  ruins.  It  is  singular,  by 
the  way,  that  it  was  twice  captured  by  men  of  the  name  of  Lil- 
burn,  or  Lillburne ;  once  in  the  reign  of  Edward  II.,  once  as 
I  have  related.  On  looking  over  historical  records,  we  are  sur- 
prised to  find  how  often  certain  names  have  been  fatal  to  cer- 
tain spots  ;  and  this  reminds  me,  by  the  way,  that  we  boast  the 
origin  of  the  English  sibyl,  the  venerable  Mother  Shipton. 
The  wild  rock,  at  whose  foot  she  is  said  to  have  been  born,  is 
worthy  of  the  tradition." 

"  You  spoke  just  now,"  said  Walter,  who  had  not  very 
patiently  suffered  the  curate  thus  to  ride  his  hobby,  "  of  Eugene 
Aram  ;  you  knew  him  well?" 

"  Nay  :  he  suffered  not  any  to  do  that !  He  was  a  remark- 
able youth.  1  have  noted  him  from  his  childhood  upward, 
long  before  he  came  to  Knaresbro',  till  on  leaving  this  place, 
fourteen  years  back,  I  lost  sight  of  him.  Strange,  musing, 
solitary  from  a  boy  :  but  what  accomplishment  of  learning  he 
had  reached  !  Never  did  I  see  one  whom  Nature  so  emphati- 
cally marked  to  be  GREAT.  I  often  wonder  that  his  name  has 
not  long  ere  this  been  more  universally  noised  abroad,  whatever 
he  attempted  was  stamped  with  such  signal  success.  I  have 
by  me  some  scattered  pieces  of  his  poetry  when  a  boy  :  they 
were  given  me  by  his  poor  father,  long  since  dead  ;  and  are  full 
of  a  dim,  shadowy  anticipation  of  future  fame.  Perhaps,  yet, 
before  he  dies, — he  is  still  young, — the  presentiment  will  be 
realized.  You,  too,  know  him,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  I  have  known  him.  Stay — dare  I  ask  you  a  question, 
a  fearful  question  ?  Did  suspicion  ever,  in  your  mind,  in  the 
mind  of  any  one,  rest  on  Aram,  as  concerned  in  the  mysterious 
disappearance  of  my — of  Clarke?  His  acquaintance  with 
Houseman  who  was  suspected  ;  Houseman's  visit  to  Aram  that 
night  ;  his  previous  poverty — so  extreme,  if  I  hear  rightly  ;  his 
after  riches — though  they  perhaps  may  be  satisfactorily  ac- 
counted for  ;  his  leaving  this  town  so  shortly  after  the  dis- 
appearance I  refer  to, — these  alone  might  not  create  suspicion 


EUGENE      ARAM.  285 

in  me,  but  I  have  seen  the  man  in  moments  of  revery  and 
abstraction  ;  I  have  listened  to  strange  and  broken  words ;  I 
have  noted  a  sudden,  keen,  and  angry  susceptibility  to  any 
unmeant  appeal  to  a  less  peaceful  or  less  innocent  remem- 
brance. And  there  seems  to  me  inexplicably  to  hang  over  his 
heart  some  gloomy  recollection,  which  I  cannot  divest  myself 
from  imagining  to  be  that  of  guilt." 

Walter  spoke  quickly,  and  in  great  though  half-suppressed 
excitement ;  the  more  kindled  from  observing  that,  as  he  spoke, 
Summers  changed  countenance,  and  listened  as  with  painful 
and  uneasy  attention. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  said  the  curate,  after  a  short  pause  (lower- 
ing his  voice) — "  I  will  tell  you  :  Aram  did  undergo  examina- 
tion ;  I  was  present  at  it  :  but  from  his  character,  and  the 
respect  universally  felt  for  him,  the  examination  was  close  and 
secret.  He  was  not,  mark  me,  suspected  of  the  murder  of  the 
imfortunate  Clarke,  nor  was  any  suspicion  of  murder  generally 
entertained  until  all  means  of  discovering  Clarke  were  found 
wholly  unavailing  ;  but  of  sharing  with  Houseman  some  part 
of  the  jewels  with  which  Clarke  was  known  to  have  left  the 
town.  This  suspicion  of  robbery  could  not,  however,  be 
brought  home,  even  to  Houseman,  and  Aram  was  satisfactorily 
acquitted  from  the  imputation.  But  in  the  minds  of  some 
present  at  that  examination,  a  doubt  lingered,  and  this  doubt 
certainly  deeply  wounded  a  man  so  proud  and  susceptible. 
This,  I  believe,  was  the  real  reason  of  his  quitting  Knaresbro? 
almost  immediately  after  that  examination.  And  some  of  us, 
who  felt  for  him,  and  were  convinced  of  his  innocence,  per- 
suaded the  others  to  hush  up  the  circumstance  of. his  examina- 
tion, nor  has  it  generally  transpired,  even  to  this  day,  when  the 
whole  business  is  well-nigh  forgot.  But  as  to  his  subsequent 
improvement  in  circumstances,  there  is  no  doubt  of  his  aunt's 
having  left  him  a  legacy  sufficient  to  account  for  it." 

Walter  bowed  his  head,  and  felt  his  suspicions  waver,  when 
the  curate  renewed  : 

"Yet  it  is  but  fair  to  tell  you,  who  seem  so  deeply  interested 
in  the  fate  of  Clarke,  that  since  that  period  rumors  have 
reached  my  ear  that  the  woman  at  whose  house  Aram  lodged 
has  from  time  to  time  dropped  words  that  require  explana- 
tion ;  hints  that  she  could  tell  a  tale — that  she  knows  more 
than  men  will  readily  believe — nay,  once  she  is  even  reported 
to  have  said  that  th.e  life  of  Eugene  Aram  was  in  her  power." 

"  Father  of  mercy  !  and  did  Inquiry  sleep  on  words  so  call' 
ing  for  its  liveliest  examination  ?  " 


286  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"  Not  wholly.  When  the  words  were  reported  to  me,  I  went 
to  the  house,  but  found  the  woman,  whose  habits  and  character 
are  low  and  worthless,  was  abrupt  and  insolent  in  her  manner; 
and  after  in  vain- endeavoring  to  call  forth  some  explanation 
of  the  words  she  was  said  to  have  uttered,  I  left  the  house  fully 
persuaded  that  she  had  only  given  vent  to  a  meaningless  boast, 
and  that  the  idle  words  of  a  disorderly  gossip  could  not  be 
taken  as  evidence  against  a  man  of  the  blameless  character 
and  austere  habits  of  Aram.  Since,  however,  you  have  now 
reawakened  investigation,  we  will  visit  her  before  you  leave 
the  town  ;  and  it  may  be  as  well,  too,  that  Houseman  should 
undergo  a  further  investigation  before  we  suffer  him  to  depart." 

"  I  thank  you  !  I  thank  you  !  I  will  not  let  slip  one  thread 
of  this  dark  clue  !  " 

"  And  now,"  said  the  curate,  pointing  to  a  decent  house, 
"we  have  reached  the  lodging  Clarke  occupied  in  the  town  !  " 

An  old  man  of  respectable  appearance  opened  the  door,  and 
welcomed  the  curate  and  his  companion  with  an  air  of  cordial 
respect,  which  attested  the  well-deserved  popularity  of  the 
former. 

"We  have  come,"  said  the  curate,  "to  ask  you  some  ques- 
tions respecting  Daniel  Clarke,  whom  you  remember  as  your 
lodger.  This  gentleman  is  a  relation  of  his,  and  interested 
deeply  in  his  fate  !  " 

"  What,  sir  !  "  quoth  the  old  man  ;  "  and  have  you,  his  rela- 
tion, never  heard  of  Mr.  Clarke  since  he  left  the  town  ? 
Strange  ! — this  room,  this  very  room,  was  the  one  Mr.  Clarke 
occupied,  and  next  to  this  (here — opening  a  door) — was  his 
bedchamber  !  " 

It  was  not  without  powerful  emotion  that  Walter  found  him- 
self thus  within  the  apartment  of  his  lost  father.  What  a  pain- 
ful, what  a  gloomy,  yet  sacred  interest,  everything  around 
instantly  assumed  !  The  old-fashioned  and  heavy  chairs — the 
brown  wainscot  walls — the  little  cupboard  recessed  as  it  Were 
to  the  right  of  the  fireplace,  and  piled  with  morsels  of  Indian 
china  and  long  taper  wine-glasses — the  small  window-panes  set 
deep  in  the  wall,  giving  a  dim  view  of  a  bleak  and  melancholy 
looking  garden  in  the  rear — yea,  the  very  floor  he  trod — the 
very  table  on  which  he  leaned — the  very  hearth,  dull  and  fire- 
less  as  it  was,  opposite  his  gaze — all  took  a  familiar  meaning  in 
his  eye,  and  breathed  a  household  voice  into  his  ear.  And 
when  he  entered  the  inner  room,  how,  even  to  suffocation,  were 
those  strange,  half-sad,  yet  not  all  bitter  emotions  increased. 
There  was  the  bed  on  which  his  father  had  rested  on  the  night 


EUGENE      ARAM.  287 

before — what  ?  perhaps  his  murder  !  The  bed,  probably  a  relic 
from  the  castle,  when  its  antique  furniture  was  set  up  to  public 
sale,  was  hung  with  faded  tapestry,  and  above  its  dark  and  pol- 
ished summit  were  hearselike  and  heavy  trappings.  Old  com- 
modes of  rudely  carved  oak,  a  discolored  glass  in  a  Japan 
frame,  a  ponderous  armchair  of  Elizabethan  fashion,  and  cov- 
ered with  the  same  tapestry  as  the  bed,  altogether  gave  that 
uneasy  and  sepulchral  impression  to  the  mind  so  commonly 
produced  by  the  relics  of  a  mouldering  and  forgotten  antiquity. 

"It  looks  cheerless,  sir,"  said  the  owner :  "  but  then  we  have 
not  had  any  regular  lodger  for  years;  it  is  just  the  same  as 
when  Mr.  Clarke  lived  here.  But  bless  you,  sir,  he  made  the 
dull  rooms  look  gay  enough.  He  was  a  blithesome  gentleman. 
He  and  his  friends,  Mr.  Houseman  especially,  used  to  make  the 
walls  ring  again. when  they  were  over  their. cups  !  " 

"  It  might  have  been  better  for  Mr.  Clarke,"  said  the  curate, 
"  had  he  chosen  his  comrades  with  more  discretion.  House- 
man was  not  a  creditable,  perhaps  not  a  safe,  companion." 
,  "  That  was  no  business  of  mine  then,"  quoth  the  lodging- 
letter  ;  "but  it  might  be  now,  since  I  have  been  a  married 
man  !  " 

The  curate  smiled.  "  Perhaps  you,  Mr.  Moor,  bore  a  part 
in  those  revels  ?  " 

"  Why,  indeed,  Mr.  Clarke  would  occasionally  make  me  take 
a  glass  or  so,  sir." 

"And  you  must  then  have  heard  the  conversations  that  took 
place  between  Houseman  and  him  ?  Did  Mr.  Clarke  ever,  in 
those  conversations,  intimate  an  intention  of  leaving  the  town 
soon  ?  And  where,  if  so,  did  he  talk  of  going  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  first  to  London.  I  have  often  heard  him  talk  of 
going  to  London,  and  then  taking  a  trip  to  see  some  relations 
of  his  in  a  distant  part  of  the  country.  I  remember  his  caress- 
ing a  little  boy  of  my  brother's  :  you  know  Jack,  sir,  not  a  little 
boy  now,  almost  as  tall  as  this  gentleman.  Ah,"  said  he  with  a 
sort  of  sigh,  "  ah  !  I  have  a  boy  at  home  about  this  age, — when 
shall  I  see  him  again  ? " 

"  When  indeed  !"  thought  Walter,  turning  away  his  face  at 
this  anecdote,  to  him  so  naturally  affecting. 

"  And  the  night  that  Clarke  left  you,  were  you  aware  of  his 
absence  ?" 

"No!  he  went  to  his  room  at  his  usual  hour,  which  was 
late,  and  the  next  morning  I  found  his  bed  had  not  been  slept 
in,  and  that  he  was  gone — gone  with  all  his  jewels,  money,  and 
valuables;  heavy  luggage  he  had  none.  He  was  a  cunning 


288  EUGENE     ARAM. 

gentleman  ;  he  never  loved  paying  a  bill.  He  was  greatly  in 
debt  in  different  parts  of  the  town,  though  he  had  not  been 
here  long.  He  ordered  everything  and  paid  for  nothing." 

Walter  groaned.  It  was  his  father's  character  exactly ; 
partly  it  might  be  from  dishonest  principles  superadded  to  the 
earlier  feelings  of  his  nature  ;  but  partly  also  from  that  tempera- 
ment,  at  once  careless  and  procrastinating,  whicl\  more  often 
than  vice,  loses  men  the  advantage  of  reputation. 

"  Then  in  your  own  mind,  and  from  your  knowledge  of 
him,"  renewed  the  curate,  "you  would  suppose  that  Clarke's 
disappearance  was  intentional :  that,  though  nothing  has  since 
been  heard  of  him,  none  of  the  blacker  rumors  afloat  were  well 
founded?  " 

"  I  confess,  sir,  begging  this  gentleman's  pardon,  who  you 
say  is  a  relation,  I  confess  I  see  no  reason  to  think  other- 
wise." 

"  Was  Mr.  Aram,  Eugene  Aram,  ever  a  guest  of  Clarke's  ? 
Did  you  ever  see  them  together  ?  " 

"  Never  at  this  house.  I  fancy  Houseman  once  presented 
Mr.  Aram  to  Clarke  ;  and  that  they  may  have  met  and  con- 
versed some  two  or  three  times — not  more,  I  believe  ;  they  were 
scarcely  congenial  spirits,  sir." 

Walter,  having  now  recovered  his  self-possession,  entered 
into  the  conversation  ;  and  endeavored,  by  as  minute  an  ex- 
amination as  his  ingenuity  could  suggest,  to  obtain  some  addi- 
tional light  upon  the  mysterious  subject  so  deeply  at  his  heart. 
Nothing,  however,  of  any  effectual  import  was  obtained  from 
the  good  man  of  the  house.  He  had  evidently  persuaded  him- 
self that  Clarke's  disappearance  was  easily  accounted  for,  and 
would  scarcely  lend  attention  to  any  other  suggestion  than 
that  of  Clarke's  dishonesty.  Nor  did  his  recollection  of  the 
meetings  between  Houseman  and  Clarke  furnish  him  with  any- 
thing worthy  of  narration.  With  a  spirit  somewhat  damped 
and  disappointed,  Walter,  accompanied  by  the  curate,  recom- 
menced his  expedition. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  289 


CHAPTER  XI. 

GRIEF  IN  A  RUFFIAN. — THE  CHAMBER  OF  EARLY  DEATH. — A 
HOMELY  YET  MOMENTOUS  CONFESSION. THE  EARTH'S  SE- 
CRETS.— THE  CAVERN. THE  ACCUSATION. 

"  All  is  not  well, 
I  d'oubt  some  foul  play. 
*        *         *        *        * 

Foul  deeds  will  rise, 
Though  all  the  earth  o'erwhelm  them,  to  men's  eyes." — Hamlet. 

As  they  passed  through  the  street,  they  perceived  three  or 
four  persons  standing  round  the  open  door  of  a  house  of  ordi- 
nary description,  the  windows  of  which  were  partially  closed. 

"  It  is  the  house,"  said  the  curate,  "  in  which  Houseman's 
daughter  died — poor — poor  child  !  Yet  why  mourn  for  the 
young!  Better  that  the  light  cloud  should  fade  away  into 
heaven  with  the  morning  breath,  than  travel  through  the  weary 
day  to  gather  in  darkness  and  end  in  storm." 

"  Ah,  sir  !  "  said  an  old  man,  leaning  on  his  stick,  and  lifting 
his  hat  in  obeisance  to  the  curate,  "  the  father  is  within,  and 
takes  on  bitterly.  He  drives  them  all  away  from  the  room,  and 
sits  moaning  by  the  bedside,  as  if  he  was  a-going  out  of  his 
mind.  Won't  your  reverence  go  in  to  him  a  bit  ?  " 

The  curate  looked  at  Walter  inquiringly.  "  Perhaps,"  said 
the  latter,  "  you  had  better  go  in  :  I  will  wait  without." 

While  the  curate  hesitated,  they  heard  a  voice  in  the  passage, 
and  presently  Houseman  was  seen  at  the  far  end,  driving  some 
women  before  him  with  vehement  gesticulations. 

"I  tell  you,  ye  hell-hags  !  "  shrieked  his  harsh  and  now  strain- 
ing voice,  "that  ye  suffered  her  to  die.  Why  did  ye  not  send 
to  London  for  physicians  ?  Am  I  not  rich  enough  to  buy  my 

child's  life  at  any  price  ?  By  the  living !  I  would  have 

turned  your  very  bodies  into  gold  to  have  saved  her.  But  she's 
DEAD  !  and  I — out  of  my  sight — out  of  my  way  !  "  And  with 
his  hands  clenched,  his  brows  knit,  and  his  head  uncovered, 
Houseman  sallied  forth  from  the  door,  and  Walter  recognized 
the  traveller  of  the  preceding  night.  He  stopped  abruptly  as 
he  saw  the  little  knot  without,  and  scowled  round  at  each  of 
them  with  a  malignant  and  ferocious  aspect.  "  Very  well — it's 
very  well,  neighbors  ! "  said  he  at  length,  with  a  fierce  laugh : 
"this  is  kind  !  You  have  come  to  welcome  Richard  Houseman 
home,  have  ye  ?  Good,  good  !  Not  to  gloat  at  his  distress  ? 


290  EUGENE     ARAM. 

Lord !  no.  Ye  have  no  idle  curiosity — no  prying,  searching, 
gossiping  devil  within  ye,  that  makes  ye  love  to  flock,  and  gape, 
and  chatter,  when  poor,  men  suffer  !  this  is  all  pure  compassion  •, 
and  Houseman,  the  good,  gentle,  peaceful,  honest  Houseman, 
you  feel  for  him, — I  know  you  do  !  Hark  ye  :  begone — away — 
march — tramp — or —  Ha,  ha!  there  they  go — there  they  go  !" 
laughing  wildly  again  as  the  frightened  neighbors  shrunk  from 
the  spot,  leaving  only  Walter  and  the  clergyman  with  the  child- 
less man. 

"  Be  comforted,  Houseman  !  "  said  Summers  soothingly  : 
"  it  is  a  dreadful  affliction  that  you  have  sustained.  I  knew 
your  daughter  well  :  you  may  have  heard  her  speak  of  me. 
Let  us  in,  and  try  what  heavenly  comfort  there  is  in  prayer.'.' 

"  Prayer  !  pooh  '     I  am  Richard  Houseman  !  " 

"Lives  there  one  man  for  whom  prayer  is  unavailing?" 

"Out,  canter,  out!  My  pretty  Jane! — and  she  laid  her 
head  on  my  bosom, — and  looked  up  in  my  face, — and  so — 
died!" 

"  Come,"  said  the  curate,  placing  his  hand  on  Houseman's 
arm,  "come." 

Before  he  could  proceed,  Houseman,  who  was  muttering  to 
himself,  shook  him  off  roughly,  and  hurried  away  up  the  street ; 
but  after  he.  .had  gone  a  few  paces,  he  turned  back,  and, 
approaching  the  curate,  said,  in  a  more  collected  tone:  "I 
pray  you,  sir,  since  you  are  a  clergyman  (I  recollect  your  face, 
and  I  recollect  Jane  said  you  had  been  good  to  her) — I  pray 
you  go,  and  say  a  few  words  over  her :  but  stay — don't  bring 
in  my  name — you  understand.  I  don't  wish  God  to  recollect 
that  there  lives  such  a  man  as  he  who  now  addresses  you. 
Halloo  !  (shouting  to  the  women),  my  hat,  and  stick  too.  Fal 
lal  la  !  fal  la  ! — why  should  these  things  make  us  play  the  mad- 
man ?  It  is  a  fine  day,  sir  :  we  shall  have  a  late  winter.  Curse 
the  b — !  how  long  she  is.  Yet  the  hat  was  left  below.  But 
when  a  death  is  in  the  house,  sir,  it  throws  things  into  con- 
fusion :  don't  you  find  it  so?" 

Here,  one  of  the  women,  pale,  trembling,  and  tearful,  brought 
the  ruffian  his  hat  ;  and,  placing  it  deliberately  on  his  head, 
and  bowing  with  a  dreadful  and  convulsive  attempt  to  smile, 
he  walked  slowly  away,  and  disappeared. 

"  What  strange  mummers  grief  makes  ! "  said  the  curate. 
"  It  is  an  appalling  spectacle  when  it  thus  wrings  out  feeling 
from  a  man  of  that  mould  !  But,  pardon  me,  my  young  friend  ; 
let  me  tarry  here  for  a  moment." 

"  I  will  enter  the  house   with  you,"  said  Walter.     And  the 


EUGENE     ARAM.  29! 

two  men  walked  in,  and  in  a  few  moments  they  stood  within 
the  chamber  of  death. 

The  face  of  the  deceased  had  not  yet  suffered  the  last  wither- 
ing change.  Her  young  countenance  was  hushed  and  serene  ; 
and,  but  for  the  fixedness  of  the  smile,  you  might  have  thought 
the  lips  moved.  So  delicate,  fair,  and  gentle  were  the  features, 
that  it  was  scarcely  possible  to  believe  such  a  scion  could  spring 
from  such  a  stock  ;  and  it  seemed  no  longer  wonderful  that  a 
tiling  so  young,  so  innocent,  so  lovely,  and  so  early  blighted, 
should  have  touched  that  reckless  and  dark  nature  which  rejected 
all  other  invasion  of  the  softer  emotions.  The  curate  wiped 
his  eyes,  and  kneeling  down  prayed,  if  not  for  the  dead  (who, 
as  our  Church  teaches,  are  beyond  human  intercession) — per- 
haps for  the  father  she  had  left  on  earth,  more  to  be  pitied  of 
the  two  I  Nor  to  Walter  was  the  scene  without  something  more 
impressive  and  thrilling  than  its  mere  pathos  alone.  He,  now 
standing  beside  the  corpse  of  Houseman's  child,  was  son  to 
the  man  of  whose  murder  Houseman  had  been  suspected.  The 
childless  and  the  fatherless  I  might  there  be  no  retribution 
here  ? 

When  the  curate's  prayer  was  over,  and  he  and  Walter 
escaped  from  the  incoherent  blessings  and  complaints  of  the 
women  of  the  house,  they,  wi:h  difficulty  resisting  the  impres- 
sion the  scene  had  left  upon  their  minds,  once  more  resumed 
their  errand. 

"  This  is  no  time,"  said  Walter  musingly,  "  for  an  examin- 
ation of  Houseman  ;  yet  it  must  not  be  forgotten." 

The  curate  did  not  reply  for  some  moments  ;  and  then,  as 
an  answer  to  the  remark,  observed  that  the  conversation  they 
anticipated  with  Aram's  former  hostess  might  throw  some  light 
on  their  researches.  They  now  proceeded  to  another  part  of 
the  town,  and  arrived  at  a  lonely  and  desolate-looking  house, 
which  seemed  to  wear  in  its  very  appearance  something  strange, 
sad,  and  ominous.  Some  houses  have  an  expression,  as  it 
were,  in  their  outward  aspect,  that  sinks  unaccountably  into  the 
heart — a  dim,  oppressive  eloquence,  which  dispirits  and  affects. 
You  say,  some  story  must  be  attached  to  those  walls  ;  some 
legendary  interest,  of  a  darker  nature,  ought  to  be  associated 
with  the  mute  stone  and  mortar:  you  feel  a  mingled  awe  and 
cariosity  creep  over  you  as  you  gaze.  Such  was  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  house  that  the  young  adventurer  now  surveyed.  It 
was  of  antique  architecture,  not  uncommon  in  old  towns: 
gable-ends  rose  from  the  roof;  dull,  small,  latticed  panes  were 
sunk  deep  in  the  gray,  discolored  wall ;  the  pale,  in  part,  was 


292  EUGENE     ARAM. 

broken  and  jagged  ;  and  rank  weeds  sprang  up  in  the  neglected 
garden,  through  which  they  walked  towards  the  porch.  The 
door  was  open  ;  they  entered,  and  found  an  old  woman  of 
coarse  appearance  sitting  by  the  fireside,  and  gazing  on  space 
with  that  vacant  stare  which  so  often  characterizes  the  repose 
and  relaxation  of  the  uneducated  poor.  Walter  felt  an  in- 
voluntary thrill  of  dislike  come  over  him,  as  he  looked  at  the 
solitary  inmate  of  the  solitary  house. 

"  Heyday,  sir !"  said  she  in  a  grating  voice;  "and  what 
now  !  Oh !  Mr.  Summers,  is  it  you  ?  You're  welcome,  sir. 
I  wishes  I  could  offer  you  a  glass  of  summut,  but  the  bottle's 
dry — he  !  he ! "  pointing  with  a  revolting  grin  to  an  empty 
bottle  that  stood  on  a  niche  within  the  hearth.  "  I  don't  know 
how  it  is,  sir,  but  I  never  wants  to  eat ;  but  ah !  'tis  the  liquor 
that  does  un  good  !  " 

"You  have  lived  a  long  time  in  this  house  ?"  said  the  curate. 

"A  long  time — some  thirty  years  an'  more." 

"You  remember  your  lodger,  Mr.  Aram  ?" 

"A — well — yes  !-" 

"  An  excellent  man — " 

"  Humph." 

"  A  most  admirable  man  ! " 

"A-humph!  he! — humph!  that's  neither  here  nor  there." 

"Why,  you  don't  seem  to  think  as  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
does  with  regard  to  him?" 

"  I  knows  what  I  knows." 

"Ah  !  by-the-by,  you  have  some  cock-and-a-bull  story  about 
him,  I  fancy,  but  you  never  could  explain  yourself  ;  it  is  merely 
for  the  love  of  seeming  wise  that  you  invented  it ;  eh,  Goody  ?" 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head,  and  crossing  her  hands  on 
her  knee,  replied  with  peculiar  emphasis,  but  in  a  very  low  and 
whispered  voice,  "I  could  hang  him  !" 

"  Pooh !  " 

"Tell  you  I  could!" 

"  Well,  let's  have  the  story  then  ! " 

"  No,  no  !  I  have  not  told  it  to  ne'er  a  one  yet ;  and  I 
won't  for  nothing.  What  will  you  give  me  ?  Make  it  worth 
my  while  ?  " 

"Tell  us  all,  honestly,  fairly,  and  fully,  and  you  shall  have 
five  golden  guineas.  There,  Goody." 

Roused  by  this  promise,  the  dame  looked  up  with  more  of 
energy  than  she  had  yet  shown,  and  muttered  to  herself,  rocking 
her  chair  to  and  fro,  "Aha  !  why  not  ?  no  fear  now — both  gone — 
can't  now  murder  the  poor  old  cretur,  as  the  wretch  once 


EUGENE     ARAM.  293 

threatened.  Five  golden  guineas — five,  did  you  say,  sir, — 
five?" 

"Ay,  and  perhaps  our  bounty  may  not  stop  there,"  said  the 
curate. 

Still  the  old  woman  hesitated,  and  still  she  muttered  to  her- 
self; but,  after  some  further  prelude,  and  some  further  entice- 
ment from  the  curate,  the  which  we  spare  our  reader,  she  came 
at  length  to  the  following  narration  : 

"It  was  on  the  7th  of  February,  in  the  year  '44;  yes,  '44, 
about  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  for  I  was  a-washing  in  the 
kitchen,  when  Mr.  Aram  called  to  me,  an'  desired  of  me  to 
make  a  fire  upstairs,  which  I  did  :  he  then. walked  out.  Some 
hours  afterwards,  it  might  be  two  in  the  morning,  I  was  lying 
awake,  for  I  was  mighty  bad  with  the  toothache,  when  I  heard 
a  noise  below,  and  two  or  three  voices.  On  this,  I  was  greatly 
afeard,  and  got  o'  bed,  and,  opening  the  door,  I  saw  Mr. 
Houseman  and  Mr.  Clarke  coming  upstairs  to  Mr.  Aram's 
room,  and  Mr.  Aram  followed  them.  They  shut  the  door,  and 
stayed  there,  it  might  be  an  hour.  Well,  I  could  not  a-think 
what  could  make  so  shy  an'  resaryed  a  gentleman  as  Mr.  Aram 
admit  these  'ere  wild  madcaps  like  at  that  hour;  an'  I  lay 
awake  a-thinking  and  a-thinking,  till  I  heard  the  door  open 
agin,  an'  I  went  to  listen  at  the  keyhole,  an'  Mr.  Clarke  said  :. 
'It  will  soon  be  morning,  and  we  must  get  off."  They  then  all 
three  left  the  house ;  but  I  could  not  sleep,  an'  I  got  up  afore 
five  o'clock,  and  about  that  hour  Mr.  Aram  an'  Mr.  Houseman 
returned,  and  they  both  glowered  at  me,  as  if  they  did  not  like 
to  find  me  a-stirring ;  an'  Mr.  Aram  went  into  his  room,  and 
Houseman  turned  and  frowned  at  me  as  black  as  night.  Lord 
have  mercy  on  me  !  I  see  him  now  !  An'  I  was  sadly  feared, 
an'  I  listened  at  the  keyhole,  an'  I  heard  Houseman  say  :  '  If 
the  woman  comes  in,  she'll  tell.'  'What  can  she  tell  ?' said 
Mr.  Aram:  'poor,  simple  thing,  she  knows  nothing.'  With 
that,  Housema'n  said,  says  he:  'If  she  tells  that  I  am  here,  it 
will  be  enough  ;  but  however,' — with  a  shocking  oath, — 'we'll 
take  an  opportunity  to  shoot  her.' 

"On  that  I  was  so  frighted  that  I  went  away  back  to  my 
own  room,  and  did  not  stir  till  they  had  a-gone  out,  and 
then — " 

"What  time  was  that  ?" 

"About  seven  o'clock.  Well,  you  put  me  out  !  where  was 
I?  Well,  I  went  into  Mr.  Aram's  room,  an'  I  seed  they  had 
been  burning  a  fire,  an'  that  all  the  ashes  were  taken  out  o' 
the  grate ;  so  I  went  an'  looked  at  the  rubbish  behind  the 


294  EUGENE     ARAM. 

house,  and  there  sure  enough  I  seed  the  ashes,  and  among  'em 
several  bits  o"  cloth  and  linen  which  seemed  to  belong  to 
wearing  apparel  ;  and  there,  too,  was  a  handkerchief  which  I 
had  obsarved  Houseman  wear  (for  it  was  a  very  curious  hand- 
kerchief, all  spotted)  rnany's  the  time,  and  there  was  blood  on 
it,  'bout  the  size  of  a  shilling.  An'  afterwards  I  seed  House- 
man, an'  I  showed  him  the  handkerchief;  and  I  said  to  him, 
'What  has  come  of  Clarke?'  an'  he  frowned,  and,  looking  at 
me,  said,  '  Hark'ye,  I  know  not  what  you  mean  :  but,  as  sure 
as  the  devil  keeps  watch  for  souls,  I  will  shoot  you  through 
the  head  if  you  ever  let  that  d — d  tongue  of  yours  let  slip  a 
single  word  about  Clarke,  or  me,  or  Mr.  Aram  ;  so  look  to 
yourself  ! ' 

"An"  I  was  all  scared,  and  trimbled  from  limb  to  limb  ;  an' 
for  two  whole  yearn  afterwards  (long  arter  Aram  and  House- 
man were  both  gone)  I  niver  could  so  much  as  open  my  lips 
on  the  matter;  and  afore  he  went,  Mr.  Aram  would  sometimes 
look  at  me,  not  sternly-like  as  the  villain  Houseman,  but  as  if 
he  would  read  to  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  Oh  !  I  was  as  if 
you  had  taken  a  mountain  off  o'  me,  when  he  an'  Houseman 
left  the  town  ;  for  sure  as  the  sun  shines  I  believes,  from  what 
I  have  now  said,  that  they  two  murdered  Clarke  on  that  same 
February  night.  An'  now,  Mr.  Summers,  I  feels  more  easy 
than  I  has  felt  for  many  a  long  day  ;  an*  if  I  have  not  told  it 
afore,  it  is  because  I  thought  of  Houseman's  frown,  and  his 
horrid  words  ;  but  summut  of  it  would  ooze  out  of  my  tongue 
now  an'  then,  for  it's  a  hard  thing,  sir,  to  know  a  secret  o'  that 
sort  and  be  quiet  and  still  about  it ;  and,  indeed,  I  was  not 
the  same  cretur  when  I  knew  it  as  I  was  afore,  for  it  made  me 
take  to  anything  rather  than  thinking ;  and  that's  the  reason, 
sir,  I  lost  the  good  crakter  I  used  to  have." 

Such,  somewhat  abridged  from  its  "  says  he  "  and  "  says  I  " — 
its  involutions  and  its  tautologies,  was  the  story  which  Walter 
held  his  breath  to  hear.  But  events  thicken,  and  the  maze  is 
nearly  thridden. 

"  Not  a  moment  now  should  be  lost,"  said  the  curate,  as  they 
left  the  house.  "  Let  us  at  once  proceed  to  a  very  able  magis- 
trate, to  whom  I  can  introduce  you,  and  who  lives  a  little  way 
out  of  the  town." 

"  As  you  will,"  said  Walter,  in  an  altered  and  hollow  voice. 
"I  am  as  a  man  standing  on  an  eminence,  who  views  the 
whole  scene  he  is  to  travel  over,  stretched  before  him  ;  but  is 
dizzy  and  bewildered  by  the  height  which  he  has  reached.  I 
know — I  feel — that  I  am  on  the  brink  of  fearful  and  dread  dis- 


EUGENE     ARAM.  295 

coveries  ;  pray  God  that — But  heed  me  not,  sir  ;  heed  me 
not— let  us  on — on  !  " 

It  was  now  approaching  towards  the  evening ;  and  as  they 
walked  on,  having  left  the  town,  the  sun  poured  his  last  beams 
on  a  group  of  persons  that  appeared  hastily  collecting  and 
gathering  round  a  spot,  well  known  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Knaresborough,  called  Thistle  Hill. 

"  Let  us  avoid  the  crowd,"  said  the  curate.  "  Yet  what,  I 
wonder,  can  be  its  cause?"  While  he  spoke,  two  peasants 
hurried  by  towards  the  throng. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  the  crowd  yonder  ? "  asked  the 
curate. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly,  your  honor  ;  but  I  hears  as  how  Jem 
Ninnings,  digging  for  stone  for  the  limekiln,  have  dug  out  a  big 
wooden  chest." 

A  shout  from  the  group  broke  in  on  the  peasant's  explana- 
tion—a sudden  simultaneous  shout,  but  not  of  joy  ;  something 
of  dismay  and  horror  seemed  to  breathe  in  the  sound. 

Walter  looked  at  the  curate  :  an  impulse— a  sudden  instinct, 
seemed  to  attract  them  involuntarily  to  the  spot  whence  that 
sound  arose  ;  they  quickened  their  pace — they  made  their  way 
through  the  throng.  A  deep  chest,  that  had  been  violently 
forced,  stood  before  them  :  its  contents  had  been  dragged  to 
day,  and  now  lay  on  the  sward,  a  bleached  and  mouldering 
skeleton  !  Several  of  the  bones  were  loose,  and  detached  from 
the  body.  A  general  hubbub  of  voices  from  the  spectators — in- 
quiry, guess,  fear,  wonder — rang  confusedly  round. 

"Yes  !  "  said  one  old  man  with  gray  hair,  leaning  on  a  pick- 
axe ;  "  it  is  now  about  fourteen  years  since  the  Jew  peddler 
disappeared  ;  these  are  probably  his  bones  ;  he  was  supposed 
to  have  been  murdered  !  " 

"  Nay  !  "  screeched  a  woman,  drawing  back  a  child  who,  all 
unalarmed,  was  about  to  touch  the  ghastly  relics.  "  Nay,  the 
peddler  was  heard  of  afterwards  !  I'll  tell  ye,  ye  may  be  sure 
these  are  the  bones  of  Clarke — Daniel  Clarke — whom  the 
country  was  so  stirred  about,  when  we  were  young  !  " 

"  Right,  dame,  right !  It  is  Clarke's  skeleton,"  was  the 
simultaneous  cry.  And  Walter,  pressing  forward,  stood  over 
the  bones,  and  waved  his  hand,  as  to  guard  them  from  farther 
insult.  His  sudden  appearance — his  tall  stature — his  wild 
gesture — the  horror — the  paleness — the  grief  of  his  counte- 
nance— struck  and  appalled  all  present.  He  remained  speech- 
less, and  a  sudden  silence  succeeded  the  late  clamor. 

"  And  what  do  you  here,  fools  ? "  said  a  voice  abruptly. 


296  EUGENE     ARAM. 

The  spectators  turned — a  new  comer  had  been  added  to  the 
throng;  it  was  Richard  Houseman.  His  dress  loose  and  dis- 
arranged— his  flushed  cheeks  and  rolling  eyes — betrayed  the 
source  of  consolation  to  which  he  had  flown  from  his  domes- 
tic affliction.  "  What  do  ye  here  ?  "  said  he,  reeling  forward. 
"  Ha  !  human  bones  !  and  whose  may  they  be,  think  ye  ?" 

"  They  are  Clarke's  !"  said  the  woman,  who  had  first  given 
rise  to  that  supposition.  "  Yes,  we  think  they  are  Daniel 
Clarke's — he  who  disappeared  some  years  ago !  "  cried  two  or 
three  voices  in  concert. 

"Clarke's?"  repeated  Houseman,  stooping  down  and  pick- 
ing up  a  thigh-bone,  which  lay  at  a  little  distance  from  the  rest; 
"  Clarke's  ?  ha  !  ha  !  they  are  no  more  Clarke's  than  mine  !  " 

"  Behold  !  "  shouted  Walter,  in  a  voice  that  rang  from  cliff 
to  plain, — and  springing  forward,  he  seized  Houseman  with 
a  giant's  grasp, — "  behold  the  murderer  !  " 

As  if  the  avenging  voice  of  Heaven  had  spoken,  a  thrilling, 
an  electric  conviction  darted  through  the  crowd.  Each  of  the 
elder  spectators  remembered  at  once  the  person  of  Houseman, 
and  the  suspicion  that  had  attached  to  his  name. 

"  Seize  him  !  seize  him  !  "  burst  forth  from  twenty  voices. 
"  Houseman  is  the  murderer  !  " 

"  Murderer  ! "  faltered  Houseman,  trembling  in  the  iron 
hands  of  Walter — "  murderer  of  whom  ?  I  tell  ye  these  are 
not  Clarke's  bones  !  " 

"  Where  then  do  they  lie  ?  "  cried  his  arrestor. 

Pale — confused — conscience-stricken — the  bewilderment  of 
intoxication  mingling  with  that  of  fear,  Houseman  turned  a 
ghastly  look  around  him,  and,  shrinking  from  the  eyes  of  all, 
reading  in  the  eyes  of  all  his  condemnation,  he  gasped  out, 
"Search  St.  Robert's  Cave,  in  the  turn  at  the  entrance  !" 

"Away!"  rang  the  deep  voice  of  Walter,  on  the  instant, 
"  away  ! — to  the  Cave  !  to  the  Cave  !  " 

On  the  banks  of  the  river  Nid,  whose  waters  keep  an  ever- 
lasting murmur  to  the  crags  and  trees  that  overhang  them,  is  a 
wild  and  dreary  cavern,  hollowed  from  a  rock,  which,  accord- 
ing to  tradition,  was  formerly  the  hermitage  of  one  of  those 
early  enthusiasts  who  made  their  solitude  in  the  sternest  re- 
cesses of  earth,  and  from  the  austerest  thoughts,  and  the 
bitterest  penance,  wrought  their  joyless  offerings  to  the  great 
Spirit  of  the  lovely  world.  To  this  desolate  spot,  called,  from 
the  name  of  its  once-celebrated  eremite,  St.  Robert's  Cave, 
the  crowd  now  swept,  increasing  its  numbers  as  it  advanced. 

The  old  man  who  had  discovered  the  unknown  remains,  which 


EUGENE     ARAM.  297 

Were  gathered  up  and  made  a  part  of  the  procession,  led  the 
way  ;  Houseman,  placed  between  two  strong  and  active  men, 
went  next  ;  and  Walter  followed  behind,  fixing  his  eyes  mutely 
upon  the  ruffian.  The  curate  had  had  the  precaution  to  send  on 
before  for  torches,  for  the  wintry  evening  now  darkened  round 
them,  and  the  light  ftom  the  torch-bearers,  who  met  them  at 
the  cavern,  cast  forth  its  red  and  lurid  flare  at  the  mouth  of 
the  chasm.  One  of  these  torches  Walter  himself  seized,  and 
his  was  the  first  step  that  entered  the  gloomy  passage. 

At  this  place  and  time,  Houseman,  who  till  then,  throughout 
their  short  journey,  had  seemed  to  have  recovered  a  sort  of 
dogged  self-possession,  recoiled,  and  the  big  drops  of  fear  or 
agony  fell  fast  from  his  brow.  He  was  dragged  forward  forci- 
bly into  the  cavern  ;  and  now  as  the  space  filled,  and  the 
torches  flickered  against  the  grim  walls,  glaring  on  faces  which 
caught,  from  the  deep  and  thrilling  contagion  of  a  common 
sentiment,  one  common  expression, — it  was  not  well  possible 
for  the  wildest  imagination  to  conceive  a  scene  better  fitted 
for  the  unhallowed  burial-place  of  the  murdered  dead. 

The  eyes  of  all  now  turned  upon  Houseman  ;  and  he,  after 
twice  vainly  endeavoring  to  speak,  for  the  words  died  inarticu- 
late and  choked  within  him,  advancing  a  few  steps,  pointed 
towards  a  spot  on  which,  the  next  moment,  fell  the  concentrated 
light  of  every  torch.  An  indescribable  and  universal  murmur, 
and  then  a  breathless  silence,  ensued.  On  the  spot  which 
Houseman  had  indicated, — with  the  head  placed  to  the  right, 
lay  what  once  had  been  a  human  body ! 

"Can  you  swear,"  said  the  priest,  solemnly,  as  he  turned  to 
Houseman,  "that  these  are  the  bones  of  Clarke?" 

"Before  God,  I  can  swear  it  !  "  replied  Houseman,  at  length 
finding  voice. 

"  MY  FATHER  ! "  broke  from  Walter's  lips,  as  he  sank  upon 
his  knees  ;  and  that  exclamation  completed  the  awe  and  horror 
which  prevailed  in  the  breasts  of  all  present.  Stung  by  the 
sense  of  the  danger  he  had  drawn  upon  himself,  and  despair 
and  excitement  restoring,  in  some  measure,  not  only  his  natural 
hardihood  but  his  natural  astuteness,  Houseman  here  master- 
ing his  emotions,  and  making  that  effort  which  he  was  after- 
wards enabled  to  follow  up  with  an  advantage  to  himself,  of  which 
he  could  not  then  have  dreamed — Houseman,  I  say,  cried  aloud: 

"  But  I  did  not  do  the  deed  :  /  am  not  the  murderer." 

"  Speak  out ! — whom  do  you  accuse?  "  said  the  curate. 

Drawing  his  breath  hard,  and  setting  his  teeth,  as  with  some 
steeled  determination,  Houseman  replied  : 


5Q8  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"The  murderer  is  Eugene  Aram  !  " 

"Aram!"  shouted  Walter,  starting  to  his  feet:  "0  God, 
thy  hand  hath  directed  me  hither  !"  And  suddenly  mid  at 
once  sense  left  him,  and  he  fell,  as  if  a  shot  had  pierced 
through  his  heart,  beside  the  remains  of  that  father  whom  he 
had  thus  mysteriously  discovered. 


BOOK  V. 

01  avru  revx^i  avrjp  a/l/lu  nana 

'II  tie  Kami  /JcwA/}  T£  /3ov'A£vaavTi  MiKicrtf, 

IlESIOD. 


Surely   the   man    that   plotteth  ill   against;  his  neighbor  perpetrateth   ill 
against  himself,  and  the  evil  design  is  most  evil  to  him  that  deviseth  it. 


ftl  A  "P'TTi'T?     T 

LHArJ.Jri.K.  1. 


GRASSDALE. — THE  MORNING  .OF  THE  MARRIAGE. THE  CRONE'S 

GOSSIP.— THE    BRIDE    AT    HER    TOILET. — THE    ARRIVAL. 

"  Jam  veniet  virgo,  jam  dicetur  H.ymenoeus, 
Hymen,  O  Hymensee  ]     Hymen  ades,  O  Hymenaee!"* 
— CATULLUS  :   Carmen  N-uptiale. 

IT  was  now  the  morning  in  which  Eugene  Aram  was  to  be 
married  to  Madeline  Lester.  The  student's  house  had  been 
set  in  order  for  the  arrival  of  the  bride,  and  though  it  was  yet 
early  morn,  two  old  women  whom  his  domestic  (now  not  the 
only  one,  for  a  buxom  lass  of  eighteen  had  been  transplanted 
from  Lester's  household  to  meet  the  additional  cares  that  the 
change  of  circumstances  brought  to  Aram's)  had  invited  to  as- 
sist her  in  arranging  what  was  already  arranged,  were  bustling 
about  the  lower  apartments,  and  making  matters  as  they  call 
it  "tidy." 

"  Them  flowers  look  but  poor  things  after  all,"  muttered  an 
old  crone  whom  our  readers  will  recognize  as  Dame  Darkmans, 
placing  a  bowl  of  exotics  on  the  table.  "  They  does  not  look 
nigh  s.o  cheerful  as  them  as  grows  in  the  open  air." 

*'Now!shall  the  Virgin  arrive  ;  now  shall  be  sung  the  Hymeneal — Hymen   Hymenaeus! 
Be  present,  O  Hymen  Hymenaeus ! 


EUGENE     ARAM. 

"  Tush  !  Goody  Parkmans,"  said  tlie  second  gossip.  "  They 
be  much  prettier  and  finer  to  my  mind  ;  and  so  said  Miss  Nelly, 
when  she  plucked  them  last  night  and  sent  me  down  with 
them.  They  says  there  is  not  a  blade  o'  grass  that  the  master 
does  not  know.  He  must  be  a  good  man  to  love  the  things  of 
the  field  so." 

"Ho  !"  said  Dame  Darkmans,  "  ho  !  when  Joe  Wrench  was 
hanged  for  shooting  the  lord's  keeper,  and  he  mounted  the 
scaffold  wid  a  nosegay  in  his  hand,  he  said,  in  a  peevish  voice, 
says  he  :  '  Why  does  not  they  give  me  a  tarnation  ?  I  always 
loved  them  sort  o' flowers  ;  I  wore  them  when  I  went  a  courting 
Bess  Lucas  ;  an'  I  would  like  to  die  with  one  in  my  hand  !  ' 
So  a  man  may  like  flowers  and  be  but  a  hempen  dog  after  all  ! " 

"Now  don't  you,  Goody  ;  be  still,  can't  you  !  what  a  tale  for 
a  marriage  day  !  " 

"  Tally  vally,"  returned  the  grim  hag  ;  "  many  a  blessing 
carries  a  curse  in  its  arms,  as  the  new  moon  carries  the  old. 
This  won't  be  one  of  your  happy  weddings,  I  tell  ye." 

"And  why  d*  ye  say  that  ?  " 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  man  with  a  look  like  that  make  a  happy 
husband  ?  No,  no  ;  can  ye  fancy  the  merry  laugh  o'  childer  in 
this  house,  or  a  babe  on  the  father's  knee,  or  the  happy,  still 
smile  on  the  mother's  winsome  face,  some  few  year  hence  ?  No, 
Madge  !  the  de'il  has  set  his  black  claw  on  the  man's  brow." 

"  Hush  !  hush,  Goody  Darkmans,  he  may  hear  o'  ye,"  said 
the  second  gossip  ;  who,  having  now  done  all  that  re- 
mained to  do,  had  seated  herself  down  by  the  window  ;  while 
the  more  ominous  crone,  leaning  over  Aram's  oak  chair,  uttered 
from  thence  her  sibyl  bodings. 

"No,"  replied  Mother  Darkmans,  "  I  seed  him  go  out  an 
hour  agone,  when  the  sun  was  just  on  the  rise  ;  and  I  said, 
when  I  seed,  him  stroam  into  the  wood  yonder,  and  the  ould 
leaves  splashed  in  the  damp  under  his  feet  ;  and  his  hat  was 
aboon  his  brows,  and  his  lips  went  so  ;  I  said,  says  I,  'tis  not 
the  man  that  will  make  a  hearth  bright,  that  would  walk  thus 
on  his  marriage  day.  But  I  knows  what  I  knows  ;  and  I  minds 
what  I  seed  last  night." 

"  Why,  what  did  you  see  last  night  ?  "  asked  the  listener, 
with  a  trembling  voice  :  for  Mother  Darkmans  was  a  great 
teller  of  ghost  and  witch  tales,  and  a  certain  ineffable  awe  of 
her  dark  gipsy  features  and  malignant  words  had  circulated 
pretty  largely  throughout  the  village. 

"  Why,  I  sat  up  here  with  the  ould  deaf  woman,  and  we  wen* 
a-drinking  the  health  of  the  man  and  his  wife  that  is  to  be,  and 


300  EUGENE     ARAM. 

it  was  nigh  twelve  o'  the  clock  ere  I  minded  it  was  time  to  go 
home.  Well,  so  I  puts  on  my  cloak,  and  the  moon  was  up,  an' 
I  goes  along  by  the  wood,  and  up  by  Fairleigh  Field,  an'  I  was 
singing  the  ballad  on  Joe  Wrench's  hanging,  for  the  spirats 
had  made  me  gamesome,  when  I  sees  somemut  dark  creep, 
creep,  but  iver  so  fast,  arter  me  over  the  field,  and  making  right 
ahead  to  the  village.  And  I  stands  still,  an'  I  was  not  a  bit 
afeard  ;  but  sure  I  thought  it  was  no  living  cretur,  at  the  first 
sight.  And  so  it  comes  up  faster  and  faster,  and  then  I  sees 
it  was  not  one  thing,  but  a  many,  many  things,  and  they  dark- 
ened the  whole  field  afore  me.  And  what  d'ye  think  they 
was  ? — a  whole  body  o'  gray  rats,  thousands  and  thousands  on 
'em,  and  they  were  making  away  from  the  outbuildings  here. 
For  sure  they  knew — the  witch  things, — that  an  ill-luck  sat  on 
the  spot.  And  so  I  stood  aside  by  the  tree,  an"  I  laughed  to 
look  on  the  ugsome  creturs,  as  they  swept  close  by  me,  tramp, 
tramp  ;  an'  they  never  heeded  me  a  jot  ;  but  some  on  'em 
looked  aslant  at  me  with  their  glittering  eyes,  and  showed  their 
white  teeth,  as  if  they  grinned,  and  were  saying  to  me, '  Ha,  ha  ! 
Goody  Darkmans,  the  house  that  we  leave  is  a  falling  house  ; 
for  the  devil  will  have  his  own.'  " 

In  some  parts  of  the  country,  and  especially  in  that  where 
our  scene  is  laid,  no  omen  is  more  superstitiously  believed  evil 
than  the  departure  of  these  loathsome  animals  from  their  ac- 
customed habitation  ;  the  instinct  which  is  supposed  to  make 
them  desert  an  unsafe  tenement  is  supposed  also  to  make  them 
predict,  in  desertion,  ill  fortune  to  the  possessor.  But  while 
the  ears  of  the  listening  gossip  were  still  tingling  with  this  nar- 
ration, the  dark  figure  of  the  student  passed  the  window,  and 
the  old  women  starting  up,  appeared  in  all  the  bustle  of  prepara- 
tion, as  Aram  now  entered  the  apartment. 

"  A  happy  day,  your  honor — a  happy  good-morning,"  said 
both  the  crones  in  a  breath  ;  but  the  blessing  of  the  worst- 
natured  was  vented  in  so  harsh  a  croak,  that  Aram  turned  round 
as  if  struck  by  the  sound  ;  and  still  more  disliking  the  well- 
remembered  aspect  of  the  person  from  whom  it  came,  waved 
his  hand  impatiently,  and  bade  them  begone. 

"  A-whish — a-whish  !  "  muttered  Dame  Darkmans,  "  to 
spake  so  to  the  poor  ;  but  the  rats  never  lie,  the  bonny 
things  !  " 

Aram  threw  himself  into  his  chair,  and  remained  for  some 
moments  absorbed  in  a  revery,  which  did  not  bear  the 
aspect  of  gloom.  Then,  walking  once  or  twice  to  and  fro  the 
apartment,  he  stopped  opposite  the  chimney-piece,  over  which 


EUGENE 

were  slung  the  firearms,  which  he  never  omitted  to  keep 
charged  and  primed. 

"Humph  !"  he  said,  half  aloud,  "ye  have  been  but  idle 
servants ;  and  now  ye  are  but  little  likely  ever  to  requite  the 
care  I  have  bestowed  upon  you." 

With  that,  a  faint  smile  crossed  his  features,  and  turning 
away  he  ascended  the  stairs  that  led  to  the  lofty  chamber  in 
which  he  had  been  so  often  wont  to  outwatch  the  stars, 

"  The  souls  of  systems,  and  the  lords  of  life, 
Through  their  wide  empires." 

Before  we  follow  him  to  his  high  and  lonely  retreat  we  will 
bring  the  reader  to  the  manor-house,  where  all  was  already 
gladness  and  quiet  but  deep  joy. 

It  wanted  about  three  hours  to  that  fixed  for  the  marriage  ; 
and  Aram  was  not  expected  at  the  manor-house  till  an  hour 
before  the  celebration  of  the  event.  Nevertheless,  the  bells 
were  already  ringing  loudly  and  blithely  ;  and  the  near  vicinity 
of  the  church  to  the  house  brought  that  sound,  so  inexpressibly 
buoyant  and  cheering,  to  the  ears  of  the  bride,  with  a  noisy 
merriment  that  seemed  like  the  hearty  voice  of  an  old-fashioned 
friend  who  seeks  in  his  greeting  rather  cordiality  than  discre- 
tion. Before  her  glass  stood  the  beautiful,  the  virgin,  the 
glorious  form  of  Madeline  Lester;  and  Ellinor,  with  trem- 
bling hands  (and  a  voice  between  a  laugh  and  a  cry),  was  braid- 
ing up  her  sister's  rich  hair,  and  uttering  her  hopes,  her  wishes, 
her  congratulations.  The  small  lattice  was  open,  and  the  air 
came  rather  chillingly  to  the  bride's  bosom. 

"  It  is  a  gloomy  morning,  dearest  Nell,"  said  she,  shivering; 
"  the  winter  seems  about  to  begin  at  last." 

"  Stay,  I  will  shut  the  window  ;  the  sun  is  struggling  with 
the  clouds  at  present,  but  I  am  sure  it  will  clear  up  by  and  by. 
You  don't  —  you  don't  leave  us — the  word  must  out  —  till 
evening." 

"  Don't  cry  ! "  said  Madeline,  half  weeping  herself  ;  and  sit- 
ting down  she  drew  Ellinor  to  her;  and  the  two  sisters,  who 
had  never  been  parted  since  birth,  exchanged  tears  that  were 
natural,  though  scarcely  the  unmixed  tears  of  grief. 

"  And  what  pleasant  evenings  we  shall  have,"  said  Madeline, 
holding  her  sister's  hands,  "in  the  Christmas  time!  You  will 
be  staying  with  us,  you"  know  ;  and  that  pretty  old  room  in  the 
north  of  the  house  Eugene  has  already  ordered  to  be  fitted  up 
for  you.  Well,  and  my  dear  father,  and  dear  Walter,  who  will 
be  returned  long  ere  then,  will  walk  over  to  see  us,  and  praise 


362  EUGENE     ARAM. 

my  housekeeping,  and  so  forth.  And  then,  after  dinner,  we 
will  draw  near  the  fire, — I  next  to  Eugene,  and  my  father,  our 
guest,  on  the  other  side  of  me,  with  his  long  gray  hair  and  his 
good  fine  face,  with  a  tear  of  kind  feeling  in  his  eye  ;  you  know- 
that  look  he  has  whenever  he  is  affected  ?  And  at  a  little  dis- 
tance on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth  will  be  you  ;  and  Walter — 
I  suppose  we  must  make  room  for  him.  And  Eugene,  who  will 
be  then  the  liveliest  of  you  all,  shall  read  to  us  with  his  soft 
clear  voice,  or  tell  us  all  about  the  birds  and  flowers,  and 
strange  things  in  other  countries.  And  then  after  supper  we 
will  walk  half-way  home  across  that  beautiful  valley — beau- 
tiful even  .in  winter — with  my  father  and.  Walter,  and  count 
the  stars,  and  take  new  lessons  in  astronomy,  and  hear  tales 
about  the  astrologers  and  the  alchyrrvists,  with  their  fine  old 
dreams.  Ah  !  it  will  be  such  a  happy  Christmas,  Ellinor  !  And 
then,  vyhen  spring  comes,  some  fine  morning — finer  than  this — 
when  the  birds  are  about,  and  the  leaves  getting  green,  and  the 
flowers  springing  up  every  day,  I  shall  be  called  in  to  help 
your  toilet,  as  you  have  helped  mine,  and  to  go  with  you  to 
church,  though  not,  alas  !  as  your  bridesmaid.  Air!  whom 
shall  we  have  for  that  duty  ?" 

"  Pshaw  .'  "  said  Ellinor,  smiling  through  her  tears. 

While  the  sisters  were  thus  engaged,  and  Madeline  was  trying, 
.with  her  innocent  kindness  of  heart,  to  exhilarate  the  spirits, 
so  naturally  depressed,  of  her  doting  sister,  the  sound  of  car- 
riage-wheels was  heard  in  the  distance — nearer,  nearer  ;  now  the 
sound  stopped,  as  at  the  gate  ;  now  fast,  faster, — fast  as  the 
postilions  could  ply  whip,  and  the  horses  tear  along,  while  the 
groups  in  the  churchyard  ran  forth  to  gaze,  and  the  bells  rang 
merrily  all  the  while,  two  chaises  whirled  by  Madeline's  win- 
dow, and  stopped  at  the  porch  of  the  house:  the  sisters  had 
flown  in  surprise  to  the  casement. 

"  It  is — it  is — good  God!  it  is  Walter,"  cried  Ellinor;  "but 
how  pale  he  looks  !  " 

"And  who  are  those  strange  men  with  him?"  faltered  Mad- 
eline, alarmed,  though  she  knew  not  why. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  303 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  STUDENT  ALONE  IN  HIS  CHAMBER. — THE  INTERRUPTION.— 
FAITHFUL  LOVE. 

"  Nequicquam  thalamo  graves 
Hastas — 

Vitabis,  strepitumque,  et  celerem  sequi 
Ajacem." — HORAT.,  Od.  xv.,  lib.   i.* 

: 

ALONE  in  his  favorite  chamber,  the  instruments  of  science 
around  him,  and  books,  some  of  astronomical  research,  some 
of  less  lofty  but  yet  abstruser  lore,  scattered  on  the  tables, 
Eugene  Aram  indulged  the  last  meditation  he  believed  likely 
to  absorb  his  thoughts  before  that  great  change  of  life  which 
was  to  bless  solitude  with  a  companion. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  pacing  the  apartment  with  folded  arms, — 
"  yes,  all  is  safe  !  He  will  not  again  return  ;  the  dead  sleeps 
now  without  a  witness.  I  may  lay  this  working  brain  upon 
the  bosom  that  loves  me,  and  not  start  at  night  and  think  that 
the  soft  hand  around  my  neck  is  the  hangman's  gripe.  Back 
to  thyself,  henceforth  and  forever,  my  busy  heart !  Let  not  thy 
secret  stir  from  its  gloomy  depth  !  the  seal  is  on  the  tomb ; 
henceforth  be  the  spectre  laid.  Yes,  I  must  smooth  my 
brow,  and  teach  my  lip  restraint,  and  smile  and  talk  like  other 
men.  I  have  taken  to  my  hearth  a  watch,  tender,  faithful, 
anxious — but  a  watch.  Farewell  the  unguarded  hour! — the 
soul's  relief  in  speech-— the  dark  and  broken,  yet  how  grateful  ! 
confidence  with  self — farewell !  And  come,  thou  veil !  .  subtle, 
close,  unvarying,  the  everlasting  curse  of  entire  hypocrisy, 
that  under  thee,  as  night,  the  vexed  world  within  may  sleep, 
and  stir  not !  and  all,  in  truth  concealment,  may  seem  re- 
pose •!•" 

As  he  uttered  these  thoughts,  the  student  paused  and  looked 
on  the  extended  landscape  that  lay  below.  A  heavy,  chill,  and 
comfortless  mist  sat  saddening  over  the  earth.  Not  a  leaf 
stirred  on  the  autumnal  trees,  but  the  moist  damps  fell  slowly 
and  with  a  mournful  murmur  upon  the  unwaving  grass.  The 
outline  of  the  morning  sun  was  visible,  but  it  gave  forth  no 
lustre  :  a  ring  of  watery  and  dark  vapor  girded  the  melancholy 
orb.  Far  at  the  entrance  of  the  valley  the  wild  fern  showed 
red  and  faded,  and  the  first  march  of  the  deadly  winter  was  al- 

*  In  vain  within  your  nuptial  chamberwfll  you  shun  the  deadly  spears;  the  hostile  shout, 
and  Ajax  eager  in  pursuit. 


364  EUGENE    ARAM. 

ready  heralded  by  that  drear  and  silent  desolation  which  era* 
dies  the  winds  and  storms.  But  amidst  this  cheerless  scene,  the 
distant  note  of  the  merry  marriage-bell  floated  by,  like  the 
good  spirit  of  the  wilderness,  and  the  student  rather  paused  to 
hearken  to  the  note  than  to  survey  the  scene. 

"  My  marriage-bell  !  "  said  he ;  "  could  I  two  short  years 
back  have  dreamed  of  this  ?  My  marriage-bell !  How  fondly 
my  poor  mother,  when  first  she  learned  pride  for  her  young 
scholar,  would  predict  this  day,  and  blend  its  festivities  with 
the  honor  and  the  wealth  her  son  was  to  acquire  !  Alas  !  can 
we  have  no  science  to  count  the  stars  and  forebode  the  black 
eclipse  of  the  future  ?  But  peace  !  peace  !  peace  !  I  am,  I  will, 
I  shall  be,  happy  now  !  Memory,  I  defy  thee  !  " 

He  uttered  the  last  words  in  a  deep  and  intense  tone,  and 
turning  away  as  the  joyful  peal  again  broke  distinctly  on  his  ear  : 

"  My  marriage-bell !  Oh,  Madeline  !  how  wondrously  be- 
loved :  how  unspeakably  dear  thou  art  to  me  !  What  hast  thou 
conquered  ?  how  many  reasons  for  resolve  ;  how  vast  an  army 
in  the  Past  has  thy  bright  and  tender  purity  overthrown  !  But 
thou, — no,  never  shalt  thou  repent  !  "  And  for  several  minutes 
the  sole  thought  of  the  soliloquist  was  love.  But  scarce  con- 
sciously to  himself,  a  spirit  not,  to  all  seeming,  befitted  to  that 
bridal-day, — vague,  restless,  impressed  with  the  dark  and  flut- 
tering shadow  of  coming  change,  had  taken  possession  of  his 
breast,  and  did  not  long  yield  the  mastery  to  any  brighter  and 
more  serene  emotion. 

"And  why  ?  "  he  said,  as  this  spirit  regained  its  empire  over 
him,  and  he  paused  before  the  "  starred  tubes  "  of  his  beloved 
science — "  and  why  this  chill,  this  shiver,  in  the  midst  of  hope? 
Can  the  mere  breath  of  the  seasons,  the  weight  or  lightness  of 
the  atmosphere,  the  outward  gloom  or  smile  of  the  brute  mass 
called  Nature,  affect  us  thus  ?  Out  on  this  empty  science,  this 
vain  knowledge,  this  little  lore,  if  we  are  so  fooled  by  the  vile 
clay  and  the  common  air  from  our  one  great  empire — self  ! 
Great  God  !  hast  thou  made  us  in  mercy  or  in  disdain  ?  Placed 
in  this  narrow  world, — darkness  and  cloud  around  us, — no  fixed 
rule  for  men, — creeds,  morals,  changing  in  every  clime,  and 
growing  like  herbs  upon  the  mere  soil, —  we  struggle  to  dispel 
the  shadows ;  we  grope  around  ;  from  our  own  heart  and  our 
sharp  and  hard  endurance  we  strike  our  only  light, — for  what? 
to  show  us  what  dupes  we  are  !  creatures  of  accident,  tools  of 
circumstance,  blind  instruments  of  the  scorner  Fate  ;  the  very 
mind,  the  very  reason,  a  bound  slave  to  the  desires,  the  weak- 
ness of  the  clay ;  affected  by  a  cloud,  dulled  by  the  damps  of 


EUGENE     ARAM.  305 

the  foul  marsh  ;  stricken  from  power  to  weakness,  from  sense 
to  madness,  to  gaping  idiocy,  or  delirious  raving,  by  a  putrid 
exhalation  ! — a  rheum,  a  chill,  and  Caesar  trembles  !  the  world's 
gods,  that  slay  or  enlighten  millions — poor  puppets  to  the  same 
rank  imp  which  calls  up  the  fungus  or  breeds  the  worm, — pah  ! 
How  little  worth  is  it  in  this  life  to  be  wise  !  Strange,  strange, 
how  my  heart  sinks.  Well,  the  better  sign,  the  better  sign  ! 
in  danger  it  never  sank." 

Absorbed  in  these  reflections,  Aram  had  not  for  some 
minutes  noticed  the  sudden  ceasing  of  the  bell  ;  but  now,  as 
he  again  paused  from  his  irregular  and  abrupt  pacings  along 
the  chamber,  the  silence  struck  him,  and  looking  forth,  and 
striving  again  to  catch  the  note,  he  saw  a  little  group  of  men, 
among  whom  he  marked  the  erect  and  comely  form  of  Row- 
land Lester,  approaching  towards  the  house. 

"  What ! "  he  thought,  "  do  they  come  for  me  ?  Is  it  so  late  ? 
Have  I  played  the  laggard  ?  Nay,  it  yet  wants  near  an  hour 
to  the  time  they  expected  me.  Well,  some  kindness, — some 
attention  from  my  good  father-in-law  ;  I  must  thank  him  for 
it.  What  ?  my  hand  trembles ;  how  weak  are  these  poor 
nerves  ;  I  must  rest  and  recall  my  mind  to  itself  !  " 

And,  indeed,  whether  or  not  from  the  novelty  and  importance 
of  the  event  he  was  about  to  celebrate,  or  from  some  presenti- 
ment, occasioned,  as  he  would  fain  believe,  by  the  mournful 
and  sudden  change  in  the  atmosphere,  an  embarrassment,  a 
wavering,  a  fear,  very  unwonted  to  the  calm  and  stately  self- 
possession  of  Eugene  Aram,  made  itself  painfully  felt  through- 
out his  frame.  He  sank  down  in  his  chair  and  strove  to  rec- 
ollect himself-'  it  was  an  effort  in  which  he  had  just  succeeded 
when  a  loud  knocking  was  heard  at  the  outer  door — it  swung 
open — several  voices  were  heard.  Aram  sprang  up,  pale, 
breathless,  his  lips  apart. 

"  Great  God  !  "  he  exclaimed,  clasping  his  hands.  "  Mur- 
derer !  Was  that  the  word  I  heard  shouted  forth  ?  The 
voice,  too,  is  Walter  Lester's.  Has  he  returned  ? — can  he  have 
learned — ?  " 

To  rush  to  the  door, — to  throw  across  it  a  long  heavy  iron 
bar,  which  would  resist  assaults  of  no  common  strength,  was 
his  first  impulse.  Thus  enabled  him  to  gain  time  for  reflection, 
his  active  and  alarmed  mind  ran  over  the  whole  field  of  ex- 
pedient and  conjecture.  Again,  "  Murderer !  "  "  Stay  me  not," 
cried  Walter  from  below  ;  "  my  hand  shall  seize  the  murderer  !  " 

Guess  was  now  over ;  danger  and  death  were  marching 
on  him.  Escape, — how! — whither?  The  height  forbade  the 


306  EUGENE      ARAM. 

thought  of  flight  from  the  casement! — the  door?— he  heard 
loud  steps  already  hurrying  up  the  stairs, — his  hands  clutched 
convulsively  at  his  breast,  where  his  fire-arms  were  generally 
concealed  ;  they  were  left  below.  He  glanced  one  lightning 
glance  round  the  room  ;  no  weapon  of  any  kind  was  at  hand* 
His  brain  reeled  for  a  moment,  his  breath  gasped,  a  mortal 
sickness  passed  over  his  heart,  and  then  the  MIND  triumphed 
over  all.  He  drew  up  to  his  full  height,  folded  his  arms  dogr 
gedly  on  his  breast,  and  muttering,  "  The  accuser  comes, — I 
have  it  still  to  refute  the  charge":  he  stood  prepared  to  meet, 
nor  despairing  to  evade,  the  worst. 

As  waters  close  over  the  object  which  divided  them,  all  these 
thoughts,  these  fears,  and  this  resolution,  had  been  but  the 
work,  the  agitation,  and  the  succeeding  calm  of  the  moment  ; 
that  moment  was  past. 

"  Admit  us  !  "  cried  the  voice  of  Walter  Lester,  knocking 
fiercely  at  the  door. 

"  Not  so  fervently,  boy,"  said  Lester,  laying  his  hand  on  his 
nephew's  shoulder  ;  "  your  tale  is  yet  to  be  proved — I  believe 
it  not  :  treat  him  as  innocent,  I  pray— I  command,  till  you 
have  shown  him  guilty." 

"  Away,  uncle  !"  said  the  fiery  Walter  ;  "  he  is  my  father's 
murderer.  God  hath  given  justice  to  my  hands."  These 
words,  uttered  in  a  lower  key  than  before,  were  but  indistinctly 
heard  by  Aram  through  the  massy  door. 

"  Open,  or  we  force  our  entrance  ! "  shouted  Walter  again  ; 
and  Aram,  speaking  for  the  first  time,  replied  in  a  clear  and 
sonorous  voice,  so  that  an  angel,  had  one  spoken,  could  not 
have  more  deeply  impressed  the  heart  of  Rowland  Lester 
with  a  conviction  of  the  student's  innocence  : 

"  Who  knocks  so  rudely  ? — what  means  this  violence  ?  I 
open  my  doors  to  my  friends.  Is  it  a  friend  who  asks  it?" 

"/  ask  it,"  said  Rowland  Lester,  in  a  trembling  and  agitated 
voice.  "There  seems  some  dreadful  mistake:  come  forth, 
Eugene,  and  rectify  it  by  a  word." 

"  Is  it  you,  Rowland  Lester?  It  is  enough.  I  was  but  with 
my  books,  and  had  secured  myself  from  instrusion.  Enter." 

The  bar  was  withdrawn,  the  door  was  burst  open,  and  even 
Walter  Lester — even  the  officers  of  justice  with  him — drew 
back  for  a  moment,  as  they  beheld  the  lofty  brow,  the  majestic 
presence,  the  features  so  unutterably  calm,  of  Eugene  Aram. 

"What  want  you,  sir? "  said  he,  unmoved  and  unfaltering, 
though  in  the  officers  of  justice  he  recognized  faces  he  had  known 
before,  and  in  that  distant  town  in  which  all  that  he  dreaded 


EUGENE     ARAM.  307 

in  the  past  lay  treasured  up.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the 
spell  that  for  an  instant  had  arrested  the  step  of  the  avenging 
son  melted  away. 

"Seize  him!"  he  cried  to  the  officers;  "you  see  your 
prisoner." 

"  Hold  !  "  cried  Aram,  drawing  back  ;  "by  what  authority 
is  this  outrage  ? — for  what  am  I  arrested  ?  " 

"  Behold,"  said  Walter,  speaking  through  his  teeth — "  behold 
our  warrant !  You  are  accused  of  murder  !  Know  you  the 
name  of  Richard  Houseman  ?  Pause — consider, — or  that  of 
Daniel  Clarke  ?  " 

Slowly  Aram  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  warrant,  and  it  might  be 
seen  that  his  face  was  a  shade  more  pale,  though  his  look  did 
not  quail,  or  his  nerves  tremble.  Slowly  he  turned  his  gaze 
upon  Walter,  and  then,  after  one  moment's  survey,  dropped  it 
once  more  on  the.  paper. 

"The  name  of  Houseman  is  not  unfamiliar  to  me,"  said  he 
calmly,  but  with  effort. 

"And  knew  you  Daniel  Clarke  ?  " 

"What  mean  these  questions?"  said  Aram,  losing  temper, 
and  stamping  violently  on  the  ground  ;  "  is  it  thus  that  a  man, 
free  and  guiltless,  is  to  be  questioned  at  the  behest,  or  rather 
outrage,  of  every  lawless  boy  ?  Lead  me  to  some  authority 
meet  for  me  to  answer;  for  you,  boy,  my  answer  is  contempt." 

"  Big  words  shall  not  save  thee,  murderer  !"  cried  Walter, 
breaking  from  his  uncle,  who  in  vain  endeavored  to  hold  him  ; 
and  laying  his  powerful  grasp  upon  Aram's  shoulder.  Livid  was 
the  glare  that  shot  from  the  student's  eye  upon  his  assailer  ; 
and  so  fearfully  did  his  features  work  and  change  with  the 
passions  within  him,  that  even  Walter  felt  a  strange  shudder 
thrill  through  his  frame. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Aram,  at  last,  mastering  his  emotions, 
and  resuming  some  portion  of  the  remarkable  dignity  that  char- 
acterized his  usual  bearing,  as  he  turned  towards  the  officers 
of  justice, — "  I  call  upon  you  to  discharge  your  duty  ;  if  this  be 
a  rightful  warrant,  I  amyvur  prisoner,  but  I  am  not  this  man's. 
I  command  your  protection  from  him  !  " 

Walter  had  already  released  his  gripe,  and  said,  in  a  muttered 
voice  : 

"  My  passion  misled  me  ;  violence  is   unworthy,  my  solemn 

cause.    God  and  Justice — not  these  hands^are  my  avengers." 

Your  avengers  !  "  said  Aram  ;  "  what  dark  words  are  these  ? 

This  warrant  accuses  me  of  the  murder  of  one  Daniel  Clarke: 

what  is  he  to  thee?" 


3°8  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"  Mark  me,  man  ! "  said  Walter,  fixing  his  eyes  on  Aram's 
countenance.  "  The  name  of  Daniel  Clarke  was  a  feigned 
name  ;  the  real  name  was  Geoffrey  Lester  :  that  murdered 
Lester  was  my  father,  and  the  brother  of  him  whose  daughter, 
had  I  not  come  to-day,  you  would  have  called  your  wife  !  " 

Aram  felt,  while  these  words  were  uttered,  that  the  eyes  of 
all  in  the  room  were  on  him  ;  and  perhaps  that  knowledge 
enabled  him  not  to  reveal  by  outward  sign  what  must  have 
passed  within  during  the  awful  trial  of  that  moment. 

-•"  Jt  is  a  dreadful  tale,"  he  said.  "  if  true  ;  dreadful  to  me,  so 
nearly  allied  to  that  family.  But  as  yet  I  grapple  with 
shadows." 

"  What !  does  not  your  conscience  now  convict  you  ? "  cried 
Walter,  staggered  by  the  calmness  of  the  prisoner.  But  here 
Lester,  who  could  no  longer  contain  himself,  interposed  :  he 
put  by  his  nephew,  and,  rushing  to  Aram,  fell,  weeping,  upon 
his  neck. 

"  I  do  not  accuse  thee,  Eugene — my  son — my  son — I  feel — 
I  know  thou  art  innocent  of  this  monstrous  crime  :  some  horrid 
delusion  darkens  that  poor  boy's  sight.  You — you — who 
would  walk  aside  to  save  a  worm  !"  and.  the  poor  old  man, 
overcome  with  his  emotions,  could  literally  say  no  more. 

Aram  looked  down  on  Lester  with  a  compassionate  expres- 
sion, and  soothing  him  with  kind  words,  and  promises  that  all 
would  be  explained,  gently  moved  from  his  hold,  and,  anxious 
to  terminate  the  scene,  silently  motioned  the  officers  to  pro- 
ceed. Struck  with  the  calmness  and  dignity  of  his  manner, 
and  fully  impressed  by  it  with  the  notion  of  his  innocence,  the 
officers  treated  him  with  a  marked  respect  ;  they  did  not  even 
walk  by  his  side,  but  suffered  him  to  follow  their  steps.  As 
they  descended  the  stairs,  Aram  turned  round  to  Walter,  with 
a  bitter  and  reproachful  countenance  : 

"And  so,  young  man,  your  malice  against  me  has  reached 
even  to  this  !  Will  nothing  but  my  life  content  you  ?  " 

"  Is  the  desire  of  execution  on  my  father's  murderer  but  the 
wish  of  malice?"  retorted  Walter,  though  his  heart  yet  well- 
nigh  misgave  him  as  to  the  grounds  on  which  his  suspicion 
rested. 

Aram  smiled,  as  half  in  scorn,  half  through  incredulity,  and, 
shaking  his. head  gently,  moved  on  without  farther  words. 

The  three  old  women,  who  had  remained  in  listening  aston- 
ishment at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  gave  way  as  the  men  de- 
scended ;  but  the  one  who  so  long  had  been  Aram's  solitary 
domestic,  and  who,  from  her  deafness,  was  still  benighted  and 


EUGENE     ARAM.  $6<) 

uncomprehending  as  to  the  cause  of  his  seizure,  though  from 
that  very  reason  her  alarm  was  the  greater  and  more  acute, — 
she — impatiently  thrusting  away  the  officers,  and  mumbling 
some  unintelligible  anathema  as  she  did  so — flung  herself  at 
the  feet  of  a  master  whose  quiet  habits  and  constant  kindness 
had  endeared  him  to  her  humble  and  faithful  heart,  and 
exclaimed  : 

"What  are  they  doing?  Have  they  the  heart  to  ill-use  you  ? 
O  master^  God  bless  you  !  God  shield  you  !  I  shall  never 
see  you,  who  was  my  only  friend — who  was  every  one's 
friend — any  more  !  " 

Aram  drew  himself  from  her,  and  said  with  a  quivering  lip 
to  Rowland  Lester : 

"  If  her  fears  are  true — if — if  I  never  more  return  hither,  see 
that  her  old  age  does  not  starve — does  not  want." 

Lester  could  not  speak  for  sobbing,  but  the  request  was 
remembered.  And  now  Aram,  turning  aside  his  proud  head  to 
conceal  his  emotion,  beheld  open  the  door  of  the  room  so 
trimly  prepared  for  Madeline's  reception  ;  the  flowers  smiled 
upon  him  from  their  stands.  "  Lead  on,  gentlemen,"  he  said 
quickly.  And  so  Eugene  Aram  passed  his  threshold  ! 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  "  muttered  the  old  hag,  whose  predictions  in  the 
morning  had  been  so  ominous.  "  Ho,  ho  !  you'll  believe  Goody 
Darkmans  another  time  !  Providence  respects  the  sayings  of 
the  ould.  'Twas  not  for  nothing  the  rats  grinned  at  me  last 
night.  But  let's  in  and  have  a  warm  glass.  He  !  he  !  there  will 
be  all  the  strong  liquors  for  us  now  ;  the  Lord  is  merciful  to 
the  poor ! " 

As  the  little  group  proceeded  through  the  valley,  the  officers 
first,  Aram  and  Lester  side  by  side,  Walter  with  his  hand  on 
his  pistol  and  his  eye  on  the  prisoner,  a  little  behind — Lester 
endeavored  to  cheer  the  prisoner's  spirits  and  his  own,  by  in- 
sisting on  the  madness  of  the  charge,  and  the  certainty  of 
instant  acquittal  from  the  magistrate  to  whom  they  were  bound, 
and  who  was  esteemed  the  one  both  most  acute  and  most  just 
in  the  county.  Aram  interrupted  him  somewhat  abruptly  : 

"  My  friend,  enough  of  this  presently.  But  Madeline — what 
knows  she  as  yet  ?  " 

"Nothing:  of  course,  we  kept — " 

"  Exactly — exactly  :  you  have  done  wisely.  Why  need  she 
learn  anything  as  yet?  Say  an  arrest  for  debt — a  mistake — an 
absence  but  of  a  day  or  so  at  most ;  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Will  you  not  see  her,  Eugene,  before  you  go,  and  say 
this  yourself? " 


310  EUGENE      ARAM. 

"  I !  O  God  !  I !  to  whom  this  day  was — No,  no  ;  save 
me,  I  implore  you,  from  the  agony  of  such  a  contrast — an  in- 
terview so  mournful  and  unavailing.  No,  we  must  not  meet  ! 
But  whither  go  we  now  ?  Not — not,  surely,  through  all  the  idle 
gossips  of  the  village — the  crowd  already  excited  to  gape,  and 
stare,  and  speculate  on  the — " 

"  No,"  interrupted  Lester ;  "  the  carriages  await  us  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  valley.  I  thought  of  that — for  the  rash  boy 
behind  seems  to  have  changed  his  nature.  I  loved — Heaven 
knows  how  I  loved  my  brother  ! — but  before  I  would  let  suspi- 
cion thus  blind  reason,  I  would  suffer  inquiry  to  sleep  forever 
on  his  fate." 

"Your  nephew,"  said  Aram,  "has  ever  wronged  me.  But 
waste  not  words  on  him  :  let  us  think  only  of  Madeline.  Will 
you  go  back  at  once  to  her,  tell  her  a  tale  to  lull  her  apprehen- 
sions, and  then  follow  us  with  haste  ?  I  am  alone  among 
enemies  till  you  come." 

Lester  was  about  to  answer,  when,  at  a  turn  in  the  road  which 
brought  the  carriage  within  view,  they  perceived  two  figures  in 
white  hastening  towards  them  ;  and  ere  Aram  was  prepared 
for  the  surprise,  Madeline  had  sunk,  pale,  trembling,  and  all 
breathless,  on  his  breast. 

"  I  could  not  keep  her  back,"  said  Ellinor  apologetically,  to 
her  father. 

"  Back  !  and  why?  Am  I  not  in  my  proper  place?"  cried 
Madeline,  lifting  her  face  from  Aram's  breast ;  and  then,  as  her 
eyes  circled  the  group,  and  rested  on  Aram's  countenance,  now 
no  longer  calm,  but  full  of  woe — of  passion — of  disappointed 
love — of  anticipated  despair — she  rose,  and  gradually  recoiling 
with  a  fear  which  struck  dumb  her  voice,  thrice  attempted  to 
speak,  and  thrice  failed. 

"But  what — what  is — what  means  this?  "  exclaimed  Ellinor. 
"  Why  do  you  weep,  father  ?  Why  does  Eugene  turn  away  his 
face  ?  You  answer  not.  Speak,  for  God's  sake  !  These 
strangers — what  are  they  ?  And  you,  Walter,  you — why  are 
you  so  pale  ?  Why  do  you  thus  knit  your  brows  and  fold 
your  arms !  You — you  will  tell  me  the  meaning  of  this 
dreadful  silence — this  scene  !  Speak,  cousin — dear  cousin, 
speak  ! " 

"  Speak  ! "  cried  Madeline,  finding  voice  at  length,  but  in  the 
sharp  and  straining  tone  of  wild  terror,  in  which  they  recog- 
nized no  note  of  the  natural  music.  That  single  word  sounded 
rather  as  a  shriek  than  an  adjuration  ;  and  so  piercingly  it  ran 
through  the  hearts  of  all  present,  that  the  very  officers,  hardened 


EUGENE     ARAM.  311 

as  their  trade  had  made  them,  felt  as  if  they  would  rather  have 
faced  death  than  answered  that  command. 

A  dead,  long,  dreary  pause,  and  Aram  broke  it.  "  Madeline 
Lester,"  said  he,  "  prove  yourself  worthy  of  the  hour  of  trial. 
Exert  yourself  ;  arouse  your  heart ;  be  prepared  !  You  are 
the  betrothed  of  one,  whose  soul  never  quailed  before  man's 
angry  word.  Remember  that,  and  fear  not !  " 

"  I  will  not — 1  will  not,  Eugene  !     Speak — only  speak  !  " 

''You  have  loved  me  in  good  report;  trust  me  now  in  ill. 
They  accuse  me  of  crime — a  heinous  crime  !  At  first,  I  would 
not  have  told  you  the  real  charge  ;  pardon  me,  I  wronged  you  : 
now,  know  all  !  They  accuse  me,  I  say,  of  crime.  Of  what 
crime  ?  you  ask.  Ay,  I  scarce  know,  so  vague  is  the  charge — 
so  fierce  the  accuser  ;  but,  prepare,  Madeline — it  is  of  murder  !  " 

Raised  as  her  spirits  had  been  by  the  haughty  and  earnest 
tone  of  Aram's  exhortation,  Madeline  now,  though  she  turned 
deadly  pale — though  the  earth  swam  round  and  round — yet 
repressed  the  shriek  upon  her  lips,  as  those  horrid  words  shot 
into  her  soul. 

"  You  ! — murder  ! — you  !     And  who  dares  accuse  you  ?  " 

"Behold  him — your  cousin  !  " 

Ellinor  heard,  turned,  fixed  her  eyes  on  Walter's  sullen  brow 
and  motionless  attitude,  and  fell  senseless  to  the  earth.  Not 
thus :  Madeline.  As  there  is  an  exhaustion  that  forbids,  not 
invites  repose,  so,  when  the  mind  is  thoroughly  on  the  rack, 
the  common  relief  to  anguish  is  not  allowed  ;  the  senses  are 
too  sharply  strung,  thus  happily  to  collapse  into  forgetfulness  ; 
the  dreadful  inspiration  that  agony  kindles  supports  nature 
while  it  consumes  it.  Madeline  passed,  without  a  downward 
glance,  by  the  lifeless  body  of  her  sister;  and  walking  with  a 
steady  step  to  Walter,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  fix- 
ing on  his  countenance  that  soft,  clear  eye,  which  was  now  lit 
with  a  searching  and  preternatural  glare,  and  seemed  to  pierce 
into  his  soul,  she  said  : 

"  Walter  !  do  I  hear  aright  ?  Am  I  awake  ?  Is  it  you  who 
accuse  Eugene  Aram  ? — your  Madeline's  betrothed  husband, — • 
Madeline,  whom  you  once  loved  ?  Of  what  ? — of  crimes  which 
death  alone  can  punish.  Away  ! — it  is  not  you — I  know  it  is 
not.  Say  that  I  am  mistaken — that  I  am  mad,  if  you  will. 
Come,  Walter,  relieve  me  :  let  me  not  abhor  the  very  air  you 
breathe  !  " 

"  Will  no  one  have  mercy  on  me  ?"  cried  Walter,  rent  to  the 
heart,  and  covering  his  face  with  his  hands.  In  the  fire  and 
heat  of  vengeance,  he  had  not  recked  of  this.  He  had  only 


312  EUGENE     ARAM. 

thought  of  justice  to  a  father — punishment  to  a  villain — rescue 
for  a  credulous  girl.  The  woe — the  horror — he  was  about  to 
inflict  on  all  he  most  loved  ;  tfiisha.d  not  struck  upon  him  with 
a  due  force  till  now  ! 

"  Mercy — you  talk  of  mercy  !  I  knew  it  could  not  be  true  !  " 
said  Madeline,  trying  to  pluck  her  cousin's  hand  from  his  face  : 
"  you  could  not  have  dreamed  of  wrong  to  Eugene — and — and 
upon  this  day.  Say  we  have  erred,  or  that  you  have  erred,  and 
we  will  forgive  and  bless  you  even  now  !  " 

Aram  had  not  interfered  in  this  scene.  He  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  cousins,  not  uninterested  to  see  what  effect  Made- 
line's touching  words  might  produce  on  his  accuser  :  meanwhile, 
she  continued  :  "  Speak  to  me,  Walter — dear  Walter,  speak  to 
me  !  Are  you,  my  cousin,  my  playfellow-«-are  you  the  one  to 
blight  our  hopes — to  dash  our  joys — to  bring  dread  and  terror 
into  a  home  so  lately  all  peace  and  sunshine — your  own  home — 
your  childhood's  home  ?  What  have  you  done  ?  what  have 
you  dared  to  do  ?  Accuse  him  /—of  what?  Murder  !  speak, 
speak.  Murder,  ha  !  ha  ! — murder  !  nay,  not  so  ! — you  would 
not  venture  to  come  here — you  would  not  let  me  take  your 
hand — you  would  not  look  us,  your  uncle,  your  more  than 
sisters,  in  the  face,  if  you  could  nurse  in  your  heart  this  lie — 
this  black,  horrid  lie  !  " 

Walter  withdrew  his  hands,  and,  as  he  turned  his  face, 
said  : 

"  Let  him  prove  his  innocence — pray  God  he  do  !  I  am  not 
his  accuser,  Madeline.  His  accusers  are  the  bones  of  my  dead 
father !  Save  these,  Heaven  alone,  and  the  revealing  earth, 
are  witness  against  him  ! " 

"  Your  father  !  "  said  Madeline,  staggering  back — "my  lost 
uncle  ?  Nay, — now  I  know,  indeed,  what  a  shadow  has  ap- 
palled us  all !  Did  you  know  my  uncle,  Eugene  ?  Did  you 
ever  see  Geoffrey  Lester?" 

"  Never,  as  I  believe,  so  help  mt  God  !  "  said  Aram,  laying 
his  hand  on  his  heart.  "  But  this  is  idle  now,"  as,  recollecting 
himself,  he  felt  that  the  case  had  gone  forth  from  Walter's 
hands,  and  that  appeal  to  him  had  become  vain. 

"Leave  us  now,  dearest  Madeline  ;  my  beloved  wife  that 
shall  be,  that  is  !  I  go  to  disprove  these  charges ;  perhaps 
I  shall  return  to-night.  Delay  not  my  acquittal,  even  from 
doubt — a  boy's  doubt.  Come,  sirs." 

"O  Eugene!  Eugene !"  cried  Madeline,  throwing  herself 
on  her  knees  before  him — "do  not  order  me  to  leave  you 
now — now,  in  the  hour  of  dread — I  will  not.  Nay,  look  not 


EUGENE     ARAM.  313 

so!  I  swear  I  will  not !  Father,  dear  father,  come,  and  plead 
for  me  ;  say  I  shall  go  with  you.  I  ask  nothing  more.  Do 
not  fear  for  my  nerves — cowardice  is  gone.  I  will  not  shame 
you, — I  will  not  play  the  woman.  I  know  what  is  due  to  one 
who  loves  him — try  me,  only  try  me.  You  weep,  father,  you 
shake  your  head.  But  you,  Eugene — you  have  not  the  heart  to 
deny  me  ?  Think — think  if  I  stayed  here  to  count  the  mo- 
ments till  you  return,  my  very  senses  would  leave  me.  What 
do  I  ask  ? — but  to  go  with  you,  to  be  the  first  to  hail  your 
triumph  !  Had  this  happened  two  hours  hence,  you  could  not 
have  said  me  nay  ;  I  should  have  claimed  the  right  to  be  with 
you  ;  I  now  but  implore  the  blessing.  You  relent — you  re- 
lent— I  see  it !  " 

"O  Heaven  !  "  exclaimed  Aram,  rising,  and  clasping  her  to 
his  breast,  and  wildly  kissing  her  face,  but  with  cold  and 
trembling  lips, — "this  is,  indeed,  a  bitter  hour ;  let  me  not 
sink  beneath  it.  Yes,  Madeline,  ask  your  father  if  he  con- 
sents ;  I  hail  your  strengthening  presence  as  that  of  an  angel. 
I  will  not  be  the  one  to  sever  you  from  my  side." 

"You  are  right,  Eugene,"  said  Lester,  who  was  supporting 
Ellinor,  not  yet  recovered, — "let  her  go  with  us;  it  is  but 
common  kindness,  and  common  mercy." 

Madeline  uttered  a  cry  of  joy  (joy  even  at  such  a  moment!), 
and  clung  fast  to  Eugene's  arm,  as  if  for  assurance  that  they 
were  not  indeed  to  be  separated. 

By  this  time  some  of  Lester's  servants,  who  had  from  a  dis- 
tance followed  their  young  mistresses,  reached  the  spot.  To 
their  care  Lester  gave  the  still  scarce  reviving  Ellinor  ;  and 
then,  turning  round  with  a  severe  countenance  to  Walter, 
said  :  "  Come,  sir,  your  rashness  has  done  sufficient  wrong  for 
the  present ;  come  now  and  see  how  soon  your  suspicions  will 
end  in  shame." 

"'  Justice,  and  blood  for  blood  !  "  said  Walter  sternly  ;  but 
his  heart  felt  as  if  it  were  broken.  His  venerable  uncle's 
tears — Madeline's  look  of  horror,  as  she  turned  from  him — El- 
linor, all  lifeless,  and  he  not  daring  to  approach  her — this  was 
his  work  !  He  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  hastened  into 
the  carriage  alone.  Lester,  Madeline,  and  Aram  followed  in 
the  other  vehicle  ;  and  the  two  officers  contented  themselves 
with  mounting  the  box,  certain  that  the  prisoner  would  attempt 
no  escape. 


314  EUGENE     ARAM. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  JUSTICE.— THE  DEPARTURE. — THE  EQUANIMITY  OF  THE 
CORPORAL  IN  BEARING  THE  MISFORTUNES  OF  OTHER  PEO- 
PLE.-—THE  EXAMINATION  ;  ITS  RESULT. — ARAM'S  CONDUCT 
IN  PRISON. — THE  ELASTICITY  OF  OUR  HUMAN  NATURE. — 

A     VISIT     FROM    THE    EARL. — WALTER'S     DETERMINATION. 

MADELINE. 

"  Bear  me  to  prison,  where  I  am  committed." — Measure  for  Measure. 

ON  arriving  at  Sir *s,  a  disappointment,  for  which,  had 

they  previously  conversed  with  the  officers,  they  might  have 
been  prepared,  awaited  them.  The  fact  was  that  the  justice 
had  only  endorsed  the  warrant  sent  from  Yorkshire  ;  and  after 
a  very  short  colloquy,  in  which  he  expressed  his  regret  at  the 
circumstance,  his  conviction  that  the  charge  would  be  dis- 
proved, and  a  few  other  courteous  commonplaces,  he  gave 
Aram  to  understand  that  the  matter  now  did  not  rest  with 
him,  but  that  it  was  to  Yorkshire  that  the  officers  were  bound, 
and  before  Mr.  Thornton,  a  magistrate  of  that  county,  that 
the  examination  was  to  take  place.  "All  I  can  do,"  said  the 
magistrate,  "  I  have  already  done  ;  but  I  wished  for  an  oppor- 
tunity of  informing  you  of  it.  I  have  written  to  my  brother 
justice  at  full  length  respecting  your  high  character,  and  treat- 
ing the  habits  and  rectitude  of  your  life  alone  as  a  sufficient 
refutation  of  so  monstrous  a  charge." 

For  the  first  time  a  visible  embarrassment  came  over  the 
firm  nerves  of  the  prisoner :  he  seemed  to  look  with  great  un- 
easiness at  the  prospect  of  this  long  and  dreary  journey,  and 
for  such  an  end.  Perhaps,  the  very  notion  of  returning  as  a 
suspected  criminal  to  that  part  of  the  country  where  a  portion 
of  his  youth  had  been  passed  was  sufficient  to  disquiet  and 
deject  him.  All  this  while  his  poor  Madeline  seemed  actuated 
by  a  spirit  beyond  herself ;  she  would  n6t  be  separated  from 
his  side — she  held  his  hand  in  hers — she  whispered  comfort 
and  courage  at  the  very  moment  when  her  own  heart  most 
sank.  The  magistrate  wiped  his  eyes  when  he  saw  a  creature 
so  young,  so  beautiful,  in  circumstances  so  fearful,  and  bearing 
up  with  an  energy  so  little  to  be  expected  from  her  years  and 
delicate  appearance.  Aram  said  but  little  ;  he  covered  his 
face  with  his  right  hand  for  a  few  moments,  as  if  to  hide  a 
passing  emotion,  a  sudden  weakness.  When  he  removed  it, 


EUGENE      ARAM.  315 

all  vestige  of  color  had  died  away ;  his  face  was  pale  as  that 
of  one  who  had  risen  from  the  grave  ;  but  it  was  settled  and 
composed. 

"  It  is  a  hard  pang,  sir,"  said  he  with  a  faint  smile  ;  "so 
many  miles — so  many  days — so  long  a  deferment  of  know- 
ing the  best  or  preparing  to  meet  the  worst.  But,  be 
it  so  !  I  thank  you,  sir, — I  thank  you  all — Lester,  Madeline, 
for  your  kindness  ;  you  two  must  now  leave  me ;  the 
brand  is  on  my  name — the  suspected  man  is  no  fit  object  for 
love  or  friendship  !  Farewell  !  " 

"  We  go  with  you  !  "  said  Madeline  firmly,  and  in  a  very  low 
voice. 

Aram's  eyes  sparkled,  but  he  waved  his  hand  impatiently. 

"  We  go  with  you,  my  friend  !  "  repeated  Lester. 

And  so,  indeed,  not  to  dwell  long  on  a  painful  scene,  it  was 
finally  settled.  Lester  and  his  two  daughters  that  evening  fol- 
lowed Aram  to  the  dark  and  fatal  bourne  to  which  he  was 
bound. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Walter,  seizing  his  uncle's  hands,  whis- 
pered : 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  do  not  be  rash  in  your  friendship ! 
You  have  not  yet  learned  all.  I  tell  you,  that  there  can  be  no 
doubt  of  his  guilt  !  Remember,  it  is  a  brother  for  whom  you 
mourn  !  Will  you  countenance  his  murderer  ?" 

Lester,  despite  himself,  was  struck  by  the  earnestness  with 
which  his  nephew  spoke,  but  the  impression  died  away  as  the 
words  ceased :  so  strong  and  deep  had  been  the  fascination 
which  Eugene  Aram  had  exercised  over  the  hearts  of  all  once 
drawn  within  the  near  circle  of  his  attraction,  that  had  the 
charge  of  murder  been  made  against  himself,  Lester  could  not 
have  repelled  it  with  a  more  entire  conviction  of  the  innocence 
of  the  accused.  Still,  however,  the  deep  sincerity  of  his 
nephew's  manner  in  some  measure  served  to  soften  his  re- 
sentment towards  him. 

"  No,  no,  boy  !  "  said  he,  drawing  away  his  hand  ;  "  Rowland 
Lester  is  not  the  one  to  desert  a  friend  in  the  day  of  darkness 
and  che  hour  of  need.  Be.  silent,  I  say  !  My  brother,  my  poor 
brother,  you  tell  me,  has  been  murdered.  I  will  see  justice  done 
to  him  :  but,  Aram  !  Fie  !  fie  !  it  is  a  name  that  would  whisper 
falsehood  to  the  loudest  accusation.  Go,  Walter !  go  !  I  do  not 
blame  you  ! — you  may  be  right— a  murdered  father  is  a  dread 
and  awful  memory  to  a  son  !  What  wonder  that  the  thought 
warps  your  judgment?  But  go!  Eugene  was  to  me  both  a 
guide  and  a  blessing  ;  a  father  in  wisdom,  a  son  in  love.  I 


316  EUGENE      ARAM. 

cannot  look  on  his  accuser's  face  without  anguish.  Go  !  we 
shall  meet  again. — How  !  Go  !  " 

"  Enough,  sir  !  "  said  Walter,  partly  in  anger,  partly  in  sor- 
row ;  "  Time  shall  be  the  judge  between  us  all  !  " 

With  those  words  he  turned  from  the  house,  and  proceeded 
on  foot  towards  a  cottage  half-way  between  Grassdale  and  the 
magistrate's  house,  at  which,  previous  to  his  return  to  the  for- 
mer place,  he  had  prudently  left  the  corporal — not  willing  to 
trust  to  that  person's  discretion,  as  to  the  tales  and  scandal  that 
he  might  propagate  throughout  the  village,  on  a  matter  so 
painful  and  so  dark. 

Let  the  world  wag  as  it  will,  there  are  some  tempers  which 
its  vicissitudes  never  reach.  Nothing  makes  a  picture  of  distress 
more  sad  than  the  portrait  of  some  individual  sitting  indiffer- 
ently looking  on  in  the  background.  This  was  a  secret  Hogarth 
knew  well.  Mark  his  deathbed  scenes  :  Poverty  and  Vice 
worked  up  into  horror — and  the  physicians  in  the  corner  wrang- 
ling for  the  fee  ! — or  the  child  playing  with  the  coffin — or 
the  nurse  filching  what  fortune,  harsh,  yet  less  harsh  than  hu- 
manity, might  have  left.  In  the  melancholy  depth  of  humor 
that  steeps  both  our  fancy  and  our  heart  in  the  immortal  ro- 
mance of  Cervantes  (for,  how  profoundly  melancholy  is  it  to  be 
compelled  by  one  gallant  folly  to  laugh  at  all  that  is  gentle,  and 
brave  'and  wise,  and  generous !  ),  nothing  grates  on  us  more 
than  when — last  scene  of  all — the  poor  knight  lies  dead, — his 
exploits  forever  over — forever  dumb  his  eloquent  discourses  : 
that  when,  I. say,  we  are  told  that,  despite  of  his  grief,  even  lit- 
tle Sancho  did  not  eat  or  drink  the  less  : — these  touches  open 
to  us  the  real  world,  it  is  true ;  but  it  is  not  the  best  part  of  it. 
Certain  it  was  that  when  Walter,  full  of  contending  emotions  at 
all  he  had  witnessed, — harassed,  tortured,  yet  also  elevated,  by 
his  feelings — stopped  opposite  the  cottage  door,  and  saw  there 
the  corporal,  sitting  comfortably  in  the  porch — his  vile  modicum 
Sabini  before  him — his  pipe  in  his  mouth — and  a  complacent 
expression  of  satisfaction  diffusing  itself  over  features  which 
shrewdness  and  selfishness  had  marked  for  their  own,— -certain 
it  was  that,  at  this  sight,  Walter  experienced  a  more  displeas- 
ing revulsion  of  feeling — a  more  entire  conviction  of  sadness — 
a  more  consummate  disgust  of  this  weary  world  and  the  motley 
masquers  that  walk  therein,  than  all  the  tragic  scenes  he  had 
just  witnessed  had  produced  within  him. 

"  And  well,  sir,"  said  the  corporal,  slowly  rising,  "  how  did 
it  go  off  ?  Wasn't  the  villain  bash'd  to  the  dust  ?  You've 
nabbed  him  safe,  I  hooe  ? " 


EUGENE     ARAM.  317 

'*  Silence  ! "  said  Walter  sternly  ;  "  prepare  for  our  depart- 
ure. The  chaise  will  be  here  forthwith  ;  we  return  to  York- 
shire this  day.  Ask  me  no  more  now." 

"  A — well — baugh  !  "  said  the  corporal. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Walter  walked  to  and  fro  the  road 
before  the  cottage.  The  chaise  arrived  ;  the  luggage  was  put  in. 
Walter's  foot  was  on  the  step  ;  but  before  the  corporal  mounted 
the  rumbling  dickey,  that  invaluable  domestic  hemmed  thrice. 

"And  had  you  time,  sir,  to  think  of  poor  Jacob,  and  slip  in  a 
word  to  your  uncle  about  the  bit  tato  ground  ? " 

We  pass  over  the  space  of  time,  short  in  fact,  long  in 
suffering,  that  elapsed,  till  the  prisoner  and  his  companions 
reached  Knaresbro'.  Aram's  conduct  during  this  time  was 
not  only  calm  but  cheerful.  The  stoical  doctrines  he  had  af- 
fected through  life,  he  on  this  trying  interval  called  into  re- 
remarkable  exertion.  He  it  was  who  now  supported  the 
spirits  of  his  mistress  and  his  friend  ;  and  though  he  no 
longer  pretended  to  be  sanguine  of  acquittal — though  again 
and  again  he  urged  upon  them  the  gloomy  fact — first,  how  im- 
probable it  was  that  this  course  had  been  entered  into  against 
him  without  strong  presumption  of  guilt ;  and  secondly,  how 
little  less  improbable  it  was,  that  at  that  distance  of  time  he 
should  be  able  to  procure  evidence,  or  remember  circum- 
stances, sufficient  on  the  instant  to  set  aside  such  presumption — 
he  yet  dwelt  partly  on  the  hope  of  ultimate  proof  of  his  inno- 
cence, and  still  more  strongly  on  the  firmness  of  his  own  mind 
to  bear,  without  shrinking,  even  the  hardest  fate. 

"  Do  not,"  he  said  to  Lester,  "  do  not  look  on  these  trials  of 
life  only  with  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Reflect  how  poor  and 
minute  a  segment,  in  the  vast  circle  of  eternity,  existence  is  at 
the  best.  Its  sorrow  and  its  shame  are  but  moments.  Always 
in  my  brightest  and  youngest  hours  I  have  wrapped  my  heart 
in  the  contemplation  of  an  august  futurity  : 

'  The  soul,  secure  in  its  existence,  smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point.' 

Were  it  not  for  Madeline's  dear  sake,  I  should  long  since  have 
been  over-weary  of  the  world.  As  it  is,  the  sooner,  even  by  a 
violent  and  unjust  fate,  we  leave  a  path  begirt  with  snares  be- 
low and  tempests  above,  the  happier  for  that  soul  which  looks 
to  its  lot  in  this  earth  as  the  least  part  of  its  appointed  doom." 
In  discourses  like  this,  which  the  nature  of  his  eloquence 
was  peculiarly  calculated  to  render  solemn  and  impressive, 
Aram  strove  to  prepare  his  friends  for  the  worst,  and  perhaps 


318  EUGENE     ARAM. 

to  cheat,  or  to  steel,  himself.  Ever  as  he  spoke  thus,  Lester 
or  Ellinor  broke  on  him  with  impatient  remonstrance ;  but 
Madeline,  as  if  imbued  with  a  deeper  and  more  mournful  pene- 
tration into  the  future,  listened  in  tearless  and  breathless  atten- 
tion. She  gazed  upon  him  with  a  look  that  shared  the  thought 
he  expressed,  though  it  read  not  (yet  she  dreamed  so)  the 
heart  from  which  it  came.  In  the  words  of  that  beautiful 
poet,  to  whose  true  nature,  so  full  of  unuttered  tenderness — so 
fraught  with  the  rich  nobility  of  love — we  have  begun  slowly 
to  awaken — 

"  Her  lip  was  silent,  scarcely  beat  her  heart, 
Her  eyes  alone  proclaim'd  '  we  will  not  part ! ' 
Thy  '  hope'  may  perish,  or  thy  friends  may  flee, 
Farewell  to  life — but  not  adieu  to  thee  ! "  * 

They  arrived  at  noon  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Thornton,  and 
Aram  underwent  his  examination.  Though  he  denied  most  of 
the  particulars  in  Houseman's  evidence,  and  expressly  the 
charge  of  murder,  his  commitment  was  made  out ;  and  that 
day  he  was  removed  by  the  officers  (Barker  and  Moor,  who 
had  arrested  him  at  Grassdale)  to  York  Castle,  to  await  his 
trial  at  the  assizes. 

The  sensation  which  this  extraordinary  event  created 
throughout  the  country  was  wholly  unequalled.  Not  only  in 
Yorkshire,  and  the  county  in  which  he  had  of  late  resided, 
where  his  personal  habits  were  known,  but  even  in  the  metrop- 
olis, and  amongst  men  of  all  classes  in  England,  it  appears  to 
have  caused  one  mingled  feeling  of  astonishment,  horror,  and 
incredulity,  which  in  our  times  has  had  no  parallel  in  any  crimi- 
nal prosecution.  The  peculiar  attributes  of  the  prisoner — his 
genius — his  learning — his  moral  life — the  interest  that  by 
students  had  been  for  years  attached  to  his  name — his  approach- 
ing marriage — the  length  of  time  that  had  elapsed  since  the 
crime  had  been  committed — the  singular  and  abrupt  manner, 
the  wild  and  legendary  spot,  in  which  the  skeleton  of  the  lost 
man  had  been  discovered — the  imperfect  rumors — the  dark  and 
suspicious  evidence, — all  combined  to  make  a  tale  of  such 
marvellous  incident,  and  breeding  such  endless  conjecture,  that 
we  cannot  wonder  to  find  it  afterwards  received  a  place,  not 
only  in  the  temporary  chronicles,  but  even  in  the  permanent 
histories  of  the  period. 

Previous  to  Walter's  departure  from  Knaresbro'  to  Grass- 
dale,  and  immediately  subsequent  to  the  discovery  at  St. 
Robert's  Cave,  the  coroner's  inquest  had  been  held  upon  the 

*  "  Lara." 


EUGENE      ARAM.  319 

bones  so  mysteriously  and  suddenly  brought  to  light.  Upon 
the  witness  of  the  old  woman  at  whose  house  Aram  had  lodged, 
and  upon  that  of  Houseman,  aided  by  some  circumstantial 
and  less  weighty  evidence,  had  been  issued  that  warrant  on 
which  we  have  seen  the  prisoner  apprehended. 

With  most  men  there  was  an  intimate  and  indignant  persua- 
sion of  Aram's  innocence  ;  and  at  this  day,  in  the  county  where 
he  last  resided,  there  still  lingers  the  same  belief.  Firm  as  his 
Gospel  faith,  that  conviction  rested  in  the  mind  of  the  worthy 
Lester  ;  and  he  sought,  by  every  means  he  could  devise,  to 
soothe  and  cheer  the  confinement  of  his  friend.  In  prison, 
however  (indeed  after  his  examination- -after  Aram  had  made 
himself  thoroughly  acquainted  with  all  the  circumstantial  evi- 
dence which  identified  Clarke  with  Geoffrey  Lester, — a  story 
that  till  then  he  had  persuaded  himself  wholly  to  disbelieve), 
a  change  which,  in  the  presence  of  Madeline  or  her  father,  he 
vainly  attempted  wholly  to  conceal,  and  to  which,  when  alone, 
he  surrendered  himself  with  a  gloomy  abstraction — came  over 
his  mood,  and  dashed  him  from  the  lofty  height  of  philosophy 
from  which  he  had  before  looked  down  on  the  peril  and  the 
ills  below. 

Sometimes  he  would  gaze  on  Lester  with  a  strange  and 
glassy  eye,  and  mutter  inaudibly  to  himself,  as  if  unaware  of  the 
old  man's  presence  ;  at  others,  he  would  shrink  from  Lester's 
proffered  hand,  and  start  abruptly  from  his  professions  of  un- 
altered, unalterable  regard  ;  sometimes  he  would  sit  silently, 
and,  with  a  changeless  and  stony  countenance,  look  upon 
Madeline  as  she  now  spoke  in  that  exalted  tone  of  consolation 
which  had  passed  away  from  himself  ;  and  when  she  had 
done,  instead  of  replying  to  her  speech,  he  would  say 
abruptly, — "  Ay,  at  the  worst  you  love  me,  then — love  me  bet- 
ter than  any  one  on  earth  ;  say  that,  Madeline,  again  say 
that !  " 

And  Madeline's  trembling  lips  obeyed  the  demand. 

"  Yes,"  he  would  renew,  "  this  man,  whom  they  accuse  me 
of  murdering,  this, — your  uncle, — him  you  never  saw  since  you 
were  an  infant,  a  mere  infant ;  him  you  could  not  love  !  What 
was  he  to  you  ? — yet  it  is  dreadful  to  think  of — dreadful, 
dreadful !  "  and  then  again  his  voice  ceased  ;  but  his  lips  moved 
convulsively,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  speak  meanings  that 
defied  words.  These  alterations  in  his  bearing,  which  belied 
his  steady  and  resolute  character,  astonished  and  dejected  both 
Madeline  and  her  father.  Sometimes  they  thought  that  his 
situation  had  shaken  his  reason,  or  that  the  horrible  suspicion 


320  EUGENE     ARAM. 

of  having  murdered  the  uncle  of  his  intended  wife  made  him 
look  upon  themselves  with  a  secret  shudder,  and  that  they 
were  mingled  up  in  his  mind  by  no  unnatural,  though  unjust 
confusion,  with  the  causes  of  his  present  awful  and  uncertain 
state.  With  the  generality  of  the  world,  these  two  tender 
friends  believed  Houseman  the  sole  and  real  murderer,  and 
fancied  his  charge  against  Aram  was  but  the  last  expedient  of 
a  villain  to  ward  punishment  from  himself,  by  imputing  crime 
to  another.  Naturally,  then,  they  frequently  sought  to  turn 
the  conversation  upon  Houseman,  and  on  the  different  circum- 
stances that  had  brought  him  acquainted  with  Aram  ;  but  on 
this  ground  the  prisoner  seemed  morbidly  sensitive,  and  averse 
to  detailed  discussion.  His  narration,  however,  such  as  it  was, 
threw  much  light  upon  certain  matters  on  which  Madeline  and 
Lester  were  before  anxious  and  inquisitive. 

"  Houseman  is,  in  all  ways,"  said  he,  with  great  and  bitter 
vehemence,  "  unredeemed,  and  beyond  the  calculations  of  an 
ordinary  wickedness  ;  we  knew  each  other  from  our  relation- 
ship, but  seldom  met,  and  still  more  rarely  held  long  inter- 
course together.  After  we  separated,  when  I  left  Knaresbro', 
we  did  not  meet  for  years.  He  sought  me  at  Grassdale  ;  he 
was  poor  and  implored  assistance  ;  I  gave  him  all  within  my 
power  ;  he  sought  me  again,  nay,  more  than  once  again,  and 
finding  me  justly  averse  to  yielding  to  his  extortionate  de- 
mands, he  then  broached  the  purpose  he  has  now  effected  ;  he 
threatened — you  hear  me — you  understand — he  threatened  me 
with  this  charge — the  murder  of  Daniel  Clarke  ;  by  that  name 
alone-  I  knew  the  deceased.  The  menace,  and  the  known  vil- 
lainy of  the  man,  agitated  me  beyond  expression.  What  was 
I? — a  being  who  lived  without  the  world — who  knew  not  its 
ways — who  desired  only  rest !  The  menace  haunted  me — 
almost  maddened  !  Your  nephew  has  told  you,  you  say,  of 
broken  words,  of  escaping  emotions,  which  he  has  noted,  even 
to  suspicion,  in  me  ;  you  now  behold  the  cause  !  Was  it  not 
sufficient  !  My  life,  nay  more,  my  fame,  my  marriage,  Made- 
line's peace  of  mind — all  depended  on  the  uncertain  fury  or 
craft  of  a  wretch  like  this  !  The  idea  was  with  me  night  and 
day  ;  to  avoid  it  I  resolved  on  a  sacrifice  ;  you  may  blame  me, 
I  was  weak,  yet  I  thought  then  not  unwise  ;  to  avoid  it,  I  say, 
I  offered  to  bribe  this  man  to  leave  the  country.  I  sold  my 
pittance  to  oblige  him  to  it.  I  bound  him  thereto  by  the  strong- 
est ties.  Nay,  so  disinterestedly,  so  truly  did  I  love  Made- 
line, that  I  would  not  wed  while  I  thought  this  danger  could 
burst  upon  me.  I  believed  that,  before  my  marriage  day, 


EUGENE   ARAM.  321 

Houseman  had  left  the  country.  It  was  not  so  ;  Fate  ordered 
otherwise.  It  seems  that  Houseman  came  to  Knaresbro',  to 
see  his  daughter  ;  that  suspicion,  by  a  sudden  train  of  events, 
fell  on  him — perhaps  justly  ;  to  screen  himself  he  has  sacri- 
ficed me.  The  tale  seems  plausible  ;  perhaps  the  accuser  may 
triumph.  But,  Madeline,  you  now  may  account  for  much  that 
may  have  perplexed  you  before.  Let  me  remember — ay — ay — 
I  have  dropped  mysterious  words — have  I  not? — have  I  not? — 
owning  that  danger  was  around  me — owning  that  a  wild  and 
terrific  secret  was  heavy  at  my  breast ;  nay,  once  walking  with 
you  the  evening  before — before  the  fatal  day,  I  said  that  we 
must  prepare  to  seek  some  yet  more  secluded  spot,  some  deeper 
retirement ;  for  despite  my  precautions,  despite  the  supposed 
absence  of  Houseman  from  the  country  itself,  a  fevered  and 
restless  presentiment  would  at  some  times  intrude  itself  on  me. 
All  this  is  now  accounted  for,  is  it  not,  Madeline  ?  Speak, 
speak  !  " 

"  All,  love,  all  !  Why  do  you  look  on  me  with  that  search- 
ing eye,  that  frowning  brow  ?  " 

"  Did  I  ?  No,  no,  I  have  no  frown  for  you  ;  but  peace,  I  am 
not  what  I  ought  to  be  through  this  ordeal." 

The  above  narration  of  Aram's  did  indeed  account  to 
Madeline  for  much  that  had  till  then  remained  unexplained  : 
the  appearance  of  Houseman  at  Grassdale, — the  meeting 
between  him  and  Aram  on  the  evening  she  walked  with  the 
latter,  and  questioned  him  of  his  ill-boding  visitor  ;  the  frequent 
abstraction  and  muttered  hints  of  her  lover ;  and,  as  he  had 
said,  his  last  declaration  of  the  possible  necessity  of  leaving 
Grassdale.  Nor  was  it  improbable,  though  it  was  rather  in 
accordance  with  the  unworldly  habits  than  with  the  haughty 
character  of  Aram,  that  he  should  seek,  circumstanced  as  he 
was,  to  silence  even  the  false  accuser  of  a  plausible  tale,  that 
might  well  strike  horror  and  bewilderment  into  a  man  much 
more,  to  all  seeming,  fitted  to  grapple  with  the  hard  and  coarse 
realities  of  life,  than  the  moody  and  secluded  scholar.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  though  Lester  deplored,  he  did  not  blame  that  cir- 
cumstance, which  after  all  had  not  transpired,  nor  seemed 
likely  to  transpire  ;  and  he  attributed  the  prisoner's  aversion 
to  enter  farther  on  the  matter  to  the  natural  dislike  of  so  proud 
a  man  to  refer  to  his  own  weakness,  and  to  dwell  upon  the 
manner  in  which,  in  spite  of  that  weakness,  he  had  been  duped. 
This  story  Lester  retailed  to  Walter,  and  it  contributed  to 
throw  a  damp  and  uncertainty  over  those  mixed  and  unquiet 
feelings  with  which  the  latter  waited  for  the  coming  trial. 


$22  EUGENE     ARAM. 

There  were  many  moments  when  the  young  man  was  tempted 
to  regret  that  Aram  had  not  escaped  a  trial  which,  if  he  were 
proved  guilty,  would  forever  blast  the  happiness  of  his  family ; 
and  which  might,  notwithstanding  such  a  verdict,  leave  on 
Walter's  own  mind  an  impression  of  the  prisoner's  innocence  ; 
and  an  uneasy  consciousness  that  he,  through  his  investigations, 
had  brought  him  to  that  doom. 

Walter  remained  in  Yorkshire,  seeing  little  of  his  family, — 
of  none  indeed  but  Lester ;  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that 
Madeline  would  see  him,  and  once  only  he  caught  the  tearful 
eyes  of  Ellinor  as  she  retreated  from  the  room  he  entered,  and 
those  eyes  beamed  kindness  and  pity,  but  something  also  of 
reproach. 

Time  passed  slowly  and  witheringly  on  :  a  man  of  the  name 
of  Terry  having  been  included  in  the  suspicion,  and  indeed 
committed,  it  appeared  that  the  prosecutor  could  not  procure 
witnesses  by  the  customary  time,  and  the  trial  was  postponed 
till  the  next  assizes.  As  this  man  was,  however,  never  brought 
up  to  trial,  and  appears  no  more,  we  have  said  nothing  of  him 
in  our  narrative,  until  he  thus  became  the  instrument  of  a 
delay  in  the  fate  of  Eugene  Aram.  Time  passed  on — winter, 
spring,  were  gone,  and  the  glory  and  gloss  of  summer  were  now 
lavished  over  the  happy  earth.  In  some  measure  the  usual 
calmness  of  his  demeanor  had  returned  to  Aram  ;  he  had 
mastered  those  moody  fits  we  have  referred  to,  which  had  so 
afflicted  his  affectionate  visitors  ;  and  he  now  seemed  to  pre- 
pare and  buoy  himself  up  against  that  awful  ordeal  of  life  and 
death  which  he  was  about  soon  to  pass.  Yet  he — the  hermit 
of  Nature,  who — 

"  Each  little  herb 

That  grows  on  mountain  bleak,  or  tangled  forest, 
Had  learnt  to  name — "  * 

he  could  not  feel,  even  through  the  bars  and  checks  of  a 
prison,  the  soft  summer  air,  "  the  witchery  of  the  soft  blue 
sky  "  ;  he  could  not  see  the  leaves  bud  forth,  and  mellow  into 
their  darker  verdure  ;  he  could  not  hear  the  songs  of  the 
many-voiced  birds,  or  listen  to  the  dancing  rain,  calling  up 
beauty  where  it  fell  ;  or  mark  at  night,  through  his  high  and 
narrow  casement,  the  stars  aloof,  and  the  sweet  moon  pouring 
in  her  light,  like  God's  pardon,  even  through  the  dungeon- 
gloom  and  the  desolate  scenes  where  Mortality  struggles  with 
Despair  ;  he  could  not  catch,  obstructed  as  they  were,  these 
the  benigner  influences  of  earth,  and  not  sicken  and  pant  for 

*  "  Remorse,"  by  S.  T.  Coleridge. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  323 

his  old  and  full  communion  with  their  ministry  and  presence. 
Sometimes  all  around  him  was  forgotten, — the  harsh  cell,  the 
cheerless  solitude,  the  approaching  trial,  the  boding  fear,  the 
darkened  hope,  even  the  spectre  of  a  troubled  and  fierce 
remembrance, — all  was  forgotten,  and  his  spirit  was  abroad, 
and  his  step  upon  the  mountain  top  once  more. 

In  our  estimate  of  the  ills  of  life  we  never  sufficiently  take 
into  our  consideration  the  wonderful  elasticity  of  our  moral 
frame,  the  unlocked  for,  the  startling  facility  with  which  the 
human  mind  accommodates  itself  to  all  change  of  circum- 
stance, making  an  object  and  even  a  joy  from  the  hardest  and 
seemingly  the  least  redeemed  conditions  of  fate.  The  man 
who  watched  the  spider  in  his  cell  may  have  taken,  at  least,  as 
much  interest  in  the  watch,  as  when  engaged  in  the  most 
ardent  and  ambitious  objects  of  his  former  life.  Let  any  man 
look  over  his  past  career,  let  him  recall  not  moments,  not  hours 
of  agony,  for  to  them  Custom  lends  not  her  blessed  magic  ; 
but  let  him  single  out  some  lengthened  period  of  physical  or 
moral  endurance  :  in  hastily  reverting  to  it,  it  may  seem  at 
first,  I  grant,  altogether  wretched  ;  a  series  of  days  marked 
with  the  black  stone — the  clouds  without  a  star  :  but  let  him 
look  more  closely,  it  was  not  so  during  the  time  of  suffering  : 
a  thousand  little  things,  in  the  bustle  of  life  dormant  and 
unheeded,  then  started  forth  into  notice,  and  became  to  him 
objects  of  interest  or  diversion  ;  the  dreary  present,  once  made 
familiar,  glided  away  from  him,  not  less  than  if  it  had  been 
all  happiness  ;  his  mind  dwelt  not  on  the  dull  intervals,  but 
the  stepping-stone  it  had  created  and  placed  at  each  ;  and,  by 
that  moral  dreaming  which  for  ever  goes  on  within  man's 
secret  heart,  he  lived  as  little  in  the  immediate  world  before 
him,  as  in  the  most  sanguine  period  of  his  youth,  or  the  most 
scheming  of  his  maturity. 

So  wonderful  in  equalizing  all  states  and  all  times  in  the 
varying  tide  of  life  are  these  two  rulers  yet  levellers  of  man- 
kind, Hope  and  Custom,  that  the  very  idea  of  an  eternal 
punishment  includes  that  of  an  utter  alteration  of  the  whole 
mechanism  of  the  soul  in  its  human  state  ;  and  no  effort  of  an 
imagination,  assisted  by  past  experience,  can  conceive  a  state 
of  torture  which  Custom  can  never  blunt,  and  from  which  the 
chainless  and  immaterial  spirit  can  never  be  beguiled  into  even 
a  momentary  escape. 

Among  the  very  few  persons  admitted  to  Aram's  solitude 

was  Lord .  That  nobleman  was  staying,  on  a  visit,  with 

a  relation  of  his  in  the  neighborhood,  and  he  seized,  with  an 


324  EUGENE      ARAM. 

excited  and  mournful  avidity,  the  opportunity  thus  afforded 
him  of  seeing  once  more  a  character  that  had  so  often  forced 
itself  on  his  speculation  and  surprise.  He  came  to  offer,  not 
condolence,  but  respect ;  services,  at  such  a  moment,  no  indi- 
vidual could  render:  he  gave,  however,  what  was  within  his 
power — advice, — and  pointed  out  to  Aram  the  best  counsel  to 
engage,  and  the  best  method  of  previous  inquiry  into  particu- 
lars yet  unexplored.  He  was  astonished  to  find  Aram  indif- 
ferent on  these  points,  so  important.  The  prisoner,  it  would 
seem,  had  even  then  resolved  on  being  his  own  counsel,  and 
conducting  his  own  cause  ;  the  event  proved  that  he  did  not 
rely  in  vain  on  the  power  of  his  own  eloquence  and  sagacity, 
though  he  might  on  their  result.  As  to  the  rest,  he  spoke  with 
impatience,  and  the  petulance  of  a  wronged  man.  "For  the 
idle  rumors  of  the  world,  I  do  not  care,"  said  he;  "let  them 
condemn  or  acquit  me  as  they  will :  for  my  life,  I  might  be 
•willing,  indeed,  that  it  were  spared, — I  trust  it  may  be ;  if  not, 
I  can  stand  face  to  face  with  Death.  I  have  now  looked  on 
him  within  these  walls  long  enough  to  have  grown  familiar 
with  his  terrors.  But  enough  of  me.  Tell  me,  my  lord,  some- 
thing of  the  world  without :  I  have  grown  eager  about  it  at 
last.  I  have  been  now  so  condemned  to  feed  upon  myself, 
that  I  have  become  surfeited  with  the  diet";  and  it  was  with 
great  difficulty  that  the  earl  drew  Aram  back  to  speak  of  him- 
self:  he  did  so,  even  when  compelled  to  it.  with  so  much 
qualification  and  reserve,  mixed  with  some  evident  anger  at 
the  thought  of  being  sifted  and  examined,  that  his  visitor  was 
forced  finally  to  drop  the  subject ;  and  not  liking,  indeed  not 
able,  at  such  a  time,  to  converse  on  more  indifferent  themes, 
the  last  interview  he  ever  had  with  Aram  terminated  much 
more  abruptly  than  he  had  meant  it.  His  opinion  of  the 
prisoner  was  not,  however,  shaken  in  the  least.  I  have  seen  a 
letter  of  his  to  a  celebrated  personage  of  the  day,  in  which, 
mentioning  this  interview,  he  concludes  with  saying  :  "  In 
short,  there  is  so  much  real  dignity  about  the  man,  that  ad- 
verse circumstances  increase  it  tenfold.  Of  his  innocence  I 
have  not  the  remotest  doubt ;  but  if  he  persist  in  being  his 
own  counsel,  I  tremble  for  the  result  :  you  know,  in  such 
cases,  how  much  more  valuable  is  practice  than  genius.  But 
the  judge,  you  will  say,  is,  in  criminal  causes,  the  prisoner's 
counsel ;  God  grant  he  may  here  prove  a  successful  one !  I 
repeat,  were  Aram  condemned  by  five  hundred  juries,  I  could 
not  believe  him  guilty.  No,  the  very  essence  of  all  human 
probabilities  is  against  it." 


EUGENE   ARAM.  325 

The  earl  afterward  saw  and  conversed  with  Walter.  He 
was  much  struck  with  the  conduct  of  the  young  Lester,  and 
much  impressed  with  compassion  for  a  situation  so  harassing 
and  unhappy. 

"Whatever  be  the  result  of  the  trial,"  said  Walter,  "I  shall 
leave  the  country  the  moment  it  is  finally  over.  If  the  prisoner 
be  condemned,  there  is  no  hearth  for  me  in  my  uncle's  home  ; 
if  not,  my  suspicions  may  still  remain,  and  the  sight  of  each 
other  be  an  equal  bane  to  the  accused  and  to  myself.  A  vol- 
untary exile,  and  a  life  that  may  lead  to  forgetfulness,  are  all 
that  I  covet.  I  now  find  in  my  own  person,"  he  added,  with  a 
faint  smile,  "  how  deeply  Shakespeare  had  read  the  mysteries  of 
men's  conduct.  Hamlet,  we  are  told,  was  naturally  full  of  fire 
and  action.  One  dark  discovery  quells  his  spirit,  unstrings  his 
heart,  and  stales  to  him  forever  the  uses  of  the  world.  I  now 
comprehend  the  change.  It  is  bodied  forth  even  in  the  hum- 
blest individual,  who  is  met  by  a  similar  fate — even  in  myself." 

"  Ay,"  said  the  earl,  "  I  do  indeed  remember  you  a  wild,  im- 
petuous, headstrong  youth.  I  scarcely  recognize  your  very 
appearance.  The  elastic  spring  has  left  your  step — there  seems 
a  fixed  furrow  in  your  brow.  These  clouds  of  life  are  indeed 
no  summer  vapor,  darkening  one  moment  and  gone  the  next. 
But,  my  young  friend,  let  us  hope  the  best.  I  firmly  believe  in 
Aram's  innocence — firmly  ! — more  rootedly  than  I  can  express. 
The  real  criminal  will  appear  on  the  trial.  All  bitterness  be- 
tween you  and  Aram  must  cease  at  his  acquittal ;  you  will  be 
anxious  to  repair  to  him  the  injustice  of  a  natural  suspicion  : 
and  he  seems  not  one  who  could  long  retain  malice.  All  will 
be  well,  believe  me." 

"  God  grant  it  !  "  said  Walter,  sighing  deeply. 

"  But  at  the  worst,"  continued  the  earl,  pressing  his  hand  in 
parting,  "  if  you  should  persist  in  your  resolution  to  leave  the 
country,  write  to  me,  and  I  can  furnish  you  with  an  honorable 
and  stirring  occasion  for  doing  so.  Farewell !  " 

While  time  was  thus  advancing  towards  the  fatal  day,  it  was 
graving  deep  ravages  within  the  pure  breast  of  Madeline  Lester. 
She  had  borne  up,  as  we  have  seen,  for  some  time,  against  the 
sudden  blow  that  had  shivered  her  young  hopes,  and  separated 
her  by  so  awful  a  chasm  from  the  side  of  Aram  ;  but  as  week 
after  week,  month  after  month  rolled  on,  and  he  still  lay  in 
prison,  and  the  horrible  suspense  of  ignominy  and  death  still 
hung  over  her,  then  gradually  her  courage  began  to  fail,  and 
her  heart  to  sink.  Of  all  the  conditions  to  which  the  heart  is 
subject,  suspense  is  the  one  that  most  gnaws  and  cankers  into, 


326  EUGENE     ARAM. 

the  frame.  One  little  month  of  that  suspense,  when  it  involves 
death,  we  are  told,  in  a  very  remarkable  work  lately  published 
by  an  eye-witness,*  is  sufficient  to  plow  fixed  lines  and  furrows 
in  the  face  of  a  convict  of  five-and-twenty — sufficient  to  dash 
the  brown  hair  with  gray,  and  to  bleach  the  gray  to  white. 
And  this  suspense — suspense  of  this  nature — for  more  than 
eight  whole  months,  had  Madeline  to  endure  ! 

About  the  end  of  the  second  month,  the  effect  upon  her 
health  grew  visible.  Her  color,  naturally  delicate  as  the  hues 
of  the  pink  shell  or  the  youngest  rose,  faded  into  one  marble 
whiteness,  which  again,  as  time  proceeded,  flushed  into  that 
red  and  preternatural  hectic  which,  once  settled,  rarely  yields 
its  place  but  to  the  colors  of  the  grave.  Her  form  shrank  from 
its  rounded  and  noble  proportions.  Deep  hollows  traced  them- 
selves beneath  eyes  which  yet  grew  even  more  lovely  as  they 
grew  less  serenely  bright.  The  blessed  sleep  sunk  not  upon 
her  brain  with  its  wonted  and  healing  dews.  Perturbed  dreams, 
that  towards  dawn  succeeded  the  long  and  weary  vigil  of  the 
night,  shook  her  frame  even  more  than  the  anguish  of  the  day. 
In  these  dreams  one  frightful  vision — a  crowd — a  scaffold — 
and  the  pale  majestic  face  of  her  lover,  darkened  by  unutterable 
pangs  of  pride  and  sorrow,  were  forever  present  before  her. 
Till  now  she  and  Ellinor  had  always  shared  the  same  bed  : 
this  Madeline  would  no  longer  suffer.  In  vain  Ellinor  wept 
and  pleaded.  "  No,"  said  Madeline,  with  a  hollow  voice  :  "  at 
night  I  see  him.  My  soul  is  alone  with  his  ;  but — but," — and 
she  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears — "  the  most  dreadful  thought 
is  this, — I  cannot  master  my  dreams.  And  sometimes  I  start 
and  wake,  and  find  that  in  sleep  I  have  believed  him  guilty. 
Nay,  O  God  !  that  his  lips  have  proclaimed  the  guilt !  And 
shall  any  living  being — shall  any  but  God,  who  reads  not  words 
but  hearts,  hear  this  hideous  falsehood — this  ghastly  mockery 
of  the  lying  sleep?  No,  I  must  be  alone!  The  very  stars 
should  not  hear  what  is  forced  from  me  in  the  madness  of  my 
dreams." 

But  not  in  vain,  or  not  excluded  from  her,  was  that  elastic 
and  consoling  spirit  of  which  I  have  before  spoken.  As  Aram 
recovered  the  tenor  of  his  self  possession,  a  more  quiet  and  peace- 
ful calm  diffused  itself  over  the  mind  of  Madeline.  Her  high 
and  starry  nature  could  comprehend  those  sublime  inspirations 
of  comfort,  which  lift  us  from  the  lowest  abyss  of  this  world, 
to  the  contemplation  of  all  that  the  yearning  visions  of  man- 
kind have  painted  in  another.  She  would  sit,  rapt  and  ab- 

*  See  Mr.  Wakefield's  work  On  the  Punishment  of  Death. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  327 

sorbed,  for  hours  together,  till  these  contemplations  assumed 
the  color  of  a  gentle  and  soft  insanity.  "  Come,  dearest  Mad- 
eline," Ellinor  would  say, — "  come,  you  have  thought  enough  ; 
my  poor  father  asks  to  see  you." 

"  Hush  !  "  Madeline  answered.  "Hush,  I  have  been  walk- 
ing with  Eugene  in  heaven  :  and  oh  !  there  are  green  woods, 
and  lulling  waters  above,  as  there  are  on  earth,  and  we  see  the 
stars  quite  near,  and  I  cannot  tell  you  how  happy  their  smile 
makes  those  who  look  upon  them.  And  Eugene  never  starts 
there,  nor  frowns,  nor  walks  aside,  nor  looks  on  me  with  an 
estranged  and  chilling  look  ;  but  his  face  is  as  calm  and 
bright  as  the  face  of  an  angel ; — and  his  voice  ! — it  thrills 
amidst  all  the  music  which  plays  there  night  and  day — softer 
than  their  softest  note.  And  we  are  married,  Ellinor,  at  last. 
We  were  married  in  heaven,  and  all  the  angels  came  to  the 
marriage  !  I  am  now  so  happy  that  we  were  not  wed  before  ! 
What  !  are  you  weeping,  Ellinor?  Ah,  we  never  weep  in 
heaven  !  but  we  will  all  go  there  again — all  of  us,  hand  in 
hand  !  " 

These  affecting  hallucinations  terrified  them,  lest  they  should 
settle  into  a  confirmed  loss  of  reason  ;  but  perhaps  without 
cause.  They  never  lasted  long,  and  never  occurred  but  after 
moods  of  abstraction  of  unusual  duration.  To  her  they  prob- 
ably supplied  what  sleep  does  to  others — a  relaxation  and  re- 
freshment— an  escape  from  the  consciousness  of  life.  And, 
indeed,  it  might  always  be  noted,  that  after  such  harmless  ab- 
errations of  the  mind,  Madeline  seemed  more  collected  and 
patient  in  thought,  and,  for  the  moment,  even  stronger  in  frame 
than  before.  Yet  the  body  evidently  pined  and  languished, 
and  each  week  made  palpable  decay  in  her  vital  powers. 

Every  time  Aram  saw  her,  he  was  startled  at  the  alteration  ; 
and  kissing  her  cheek,  her  lips,  her  temples,  in  an  agony  of 
grief,  wondered  that  to  him  alone  it  was  forbidden  to  weep. 
Yet  after  all,  when  she  was  gone,  and  he  again  alone,  he  could 
not  but  think  death  likely  to  prove  to  her  the  most  happy  of 
earthly  boons.  He  was  not  sanguine  of  acquittal  ;  and  even  in 
acquittal,  a  voice  at  his  heart  suggested  insuperable  barriers  to 
their  union,  which  had  not  existed  when  it  was  first  anticipated. 

"  Yes,  let  her  die,"  he  would  say,  "let  her  die  ;  she  at  least 
is  certain  of  heaven  !  "  But  the  human  infirmity  clung  around 
him,  and  notwithstanding  this  seeming  resolution  in  her  absence, 
he  did  not  mourn  the  less,  he  was  not  stung  the  less,  when  he 
saw  her  again,  and  beheld  a  new  character  from  the  hand  of 
death  graven  upon  her  form.  No  ;  we  may  triumph  over  all 


328  EUGENE     ARAM. 

weakness,  but  that  of  the  affections  !  Perhaps  in  this  dreary 
and  haggard  interval  of  time,  these  two  persons  loved  each 
other  more  purely,  more  strongly,  more  enthusiastically,  than 
they  had  ever  done  at  any  former  period  of  their  eventful  his- 
tory. Over  the  hardest  stone,  as  over  the  softest  turf,  the  green 
moss  will  force  its  verdure  and  sustain  its  life  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  EVENING  BEFORE  THE  TRIAL. — THE  COUSINS. — THE  CHANGE 
IN  MADELINE. — THE  FAMILY  OF  GRASSDALE  MEET  ONCE  MORE 
BENEATH  ONE  ROOF. 

"  Each  substance  of  a  grief  hath  twenty  shadows, 
For  sorrow's  eye,  glazed  with  blinding  tears, 
Divides  one  thing  entire  to  many  objects. 
****** 

"  Hope  is  a  flatterer, 
A  parasite,  a  keeper  back  of  death  ; 
Who  gently  would  dissolve  the  bands  of  death 
Which  false  Hope  lingers  in  extremity?" — Richard II. 

IT  was  the  evening  before  the  trial.  Lester  and  his  daugh- 
ters lodged  at  a  retired  and  solitary  house  in  the  suburbs  of  the 
town  of  York  ;  and  thither,  from  the  village  some  miles  dis- 
tant, in  which  he  had  chosen  his  own  retreat,  Walter  now  pro- 
ceeded across  fields  laden  with  the  ripening  corn.  The 
last  and  the  richest  month  of  summer  had  commenced  ;  but 
the  harvest  was  not  yet  begun,  and  deep  and  golden  showed 
the  vegetation  of  life,  bedded  among  the  dark  verdure  of  the 
hedge-rows  and  the  "merrie  woods!"  The  evening  was 
serene  and  lulled  ;  at  a  distance  arose  the  spires  and  chimneys 
of  the  town ,  but  no  sound  from  the  busy  hum  of  men  reached  the 
ear.  Nothing  perhaps  gives  a  more  entire  idea  of  stillness  than 
the  sight  of  those  abodes  where  "  noise  dwelleth,"  but  where  you 
cannot  now  hear  even  its  murmurs.  The  stillness  of  a  city  is 
far  more  impressive  than  that  of  Nature  ;  for  the  mind  instantly 
compares  the  present  silence  with  the  wonted  uproar.  The 
harvest-moon  rose  slowly  from  a  copse  of  gloomy  firs,  and  in- 
fused its  own  unspeakable  magic  into  the  hush  and  transpar^ 
ency  of  the  night.  As  Walter  walked  slowly  on,  the  sound  of 
voices  from  some  rustic  party  going  homeward  broke  jocundly 
on  the  silence,  and  when  he  paused  for  a  moment  at  the  stile, 
from  which  he  first  caught  a  glimpse  of  Lester's  house,  he  saw, 


EUGENE     ARAM.  3*9 

winding  along  the  green  hedge-row,  some  village  pair,  the 
"lover  and  the  maid,"  who  could  meet  only  at  such  hours,  and 
to  whom  such  hours  were  therefore  especially  dear.  It  was 
altogether  a  scene  of  pure  and  true  pastoral  character,  and 
there  was  all  around  a  semblance  of  tranquillity,  of  happiness, 
which  suits  with  the  poetical  and  the  scriptural  paintings  of  a 
pastoral  life ;  and  which  perhaps,  in  a  new  and  fertile  country, 
may  still  find  a  realization.  From  this  scene,  from  these 
thoughts,  the  young  loiterer  turned  with  a  sigh  towards  the 
solitary  house  in  which  this  night  could  awaken  none  but  the 
most  anxious  feelings,  and  that  moon  could  beam  only  on  the 
most  troubled  hearts. 

"  Terra  salutiferas  herbas,  eademque  nocentes 
Nutrit  ;  et  urticae  proxima  saepe  rosa  est."  * 

He  now  walked  more  quickly  on,  as  if  stung  by  his  reflec- 
tions, and  avoiding  the  path  which  led  to  the  front  of  the  house, 
gained  a  little  garden  at  the  rear ;  and  opening  a  gate  that  ad' 
mitted  to  a  narrow  and  shaded  walk,  over  which  the  linden  and 
nut  trees  made  a  sort  of  continuous  and  natural  arbor,  the  moon, 
piercing  at  broken  intervals  through  the  boughs,  rested  on  the 
form  of  Ellinor  Lester. 

"  This  is  most  kind,  most  like  my  own  sweet  cousin,"  said 
Walter,  approaching  ;  "  I  cannot  say  how  fearful  I  was,  lest  you 
should  not  meet  me  after  all." 

"  Indeed,  Walter,"  replied  Ellinor,  "  I  found  some  difficulty 
in  concealing  your  note,  which  was  given  me  in  Madeline's 
presence  ;  and  still  more  in  stealing  out  unobserved  by  her,  for 
she  has  been,  as  you  may  well  conceive,  unusually  restless  the 
whole  of  this  agonizing  day.  Ah,  Walter,  would  to  God  you 
had  never  left  us  !  " 

"Rather  say,"  rejoined  Walter,  "would  that  this  unhappy 
man,  against  whom  my  father's  ashes  still  seem  to  me  to  cry 
aloud,  had  never  come  into  our  peaceful  and  happy  valley  ! 
Then  you  would  not  have  reproached  me,  that  I  have  sought 
justice  on  a  suspected  murderer;  nor  J  have  longed  for  death 
rather  than,  in  that  justice,  have  inflicted  such  distress  and 
horror  on  those  whom  I  love  the  best  !  " 

"  What,  Walter,  you  yet  believe — you  are  yet  convinced  that 
Eugene  Aram  is  the  real  criminal  ?" 

"  Let  to-morrow  show,"  answered  Walter.  "  But  poor,  poor 
Madeline  !  How  does  she  bear  up  against  this  long  suspense  ? 
You  know  I  have  not  seen  her  for  months." 

*  The  same  earth  produces  health-bearing  and  deadly  plants ;  and   ofttimes   the   rose 
grows  nearest  to  the  nettle. 


330  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"  Oh  !  Walter,"  said  Ellinor,  weeping  bitterly  ;  "  you  would 
not  know  her,  so  dreadfully  is  she  altered.  I  fear"  (here  sobs 
ckoked  the  sister's  voice,  so  as  to  leave  it  scarcely  audible) — 
"that  she  is  not  many  weeks  for  this  world  !  " 

"  Just  Heaven  !  is  it  so  ?  "  exclaimed  Walter,  so  shocked, 
that  the  tree  against  which  he  leant  scarcely  preserved  him  from 
falling  to  the  ground,  as  the  thousand  remembrances  of  his  first 
love  rushed  upon  his  heart.  "  And  Providence  singled  me  out 
of  the  whole  world,  to  strike  this  blow  !  " 

Despite  her  own  grief,  Ellinor  was  touched  and  smitten  by 
the  violent  emotion  of  her  cousin  ;  and  the  two  young  persons, 
lovers,  though  love  was  at  this  time  the  least  perceptible  feeling 
of  their  breast,  mingled  their  emotions,  and  sought,  at  least,  to 
console  and  cheer  each  other. 

"  It  may  yet  be  better  than  our  fears,"  said  Ellinor  sooth- 
ingly. "  Eugene  may  be  found  guiltless,  and  in  that  joy  we 
may  forget  all  the  past." 

Walter  shook  his  head  despondingly.  "Your  heart,  Ellinor, 
was  always  kind  to  me.  You  now  are  the  only  one  to  do  me 
justice,  and  to  see  how  utterly  reproachless  I  am  for  all  the 
misery  the  crime  of  another  occasions.  But  my  uncle — him, 
too,  I  have  not  seen  for  some  time :  is  he  well? " 

"Yes,  Walter,  yes,"  said  Ellinor,  kindly  disguising  the  real 
truth,  how  much  her  father's  vigorous  frame  had  been  bowed 
by  his  state  of  mind.  "And  I,  you  see,"  added  she,  with  a 
faint  attempt  to  smile, — "  I  am,  in  health  at  least,  the  same  as 
when,  this  time  last  year,  we  were  all  happy  and  full  of  hope." 

Walter  looked  hard  upon  that  face,  once  so  vivid  with  the 
rich  color  and  the  buoyant  and  arch  expression  of  liveliness 
and  youth,  now  pale,  subdued,  and  worn  by  the  traces  of  con- 
stant tears  ;  and,  pressing  his  hand  convulsively  on  his  heart, 
turned  away. 

"  But  can  I  not  see  my  uncle  ? "  said  he,  after  a  pause. 

"  He  is  not  at  home  :  he  has  gone  to  the  Castle,"  replied 
Ellinor. 

"  I  shall  meet  him,  then,  on  his  way  home,"  returned  Walter. 
"But,  Ellinor,  there  is  surely  no  truth  in  a  vague  rumor 
which  I  heard  in  the  town,  that  Madeline  intends  to  be  present 
at  the  trial  to-morrow?" 

"Indeed,  I  fear  that  she  will.  Both  my  father  and  myself 
have  sought  strongly  and  urgently  to  dissuade  her,  but  in  vain. 
You  know,  with  all  that  gentleness,  how  resolute  she  is  when 
her  mind  is  once  determined  on  any  object." 

"But  if  the  verdict  should  be  against  the  prisoner,  in  her 


EUGENE     ARAM.  331 

State  of  health  consider  how  terrible  would  be  the  shock  !  Nay, 
even  the  joy  of  acquittal  might  be  equally  dangerous  ;  for 
Heaven's  sake,  do  not  suffer  her." 

"What  is  to  be  done,  Walter?"  said  Ellinor,  wringing  her 
hands.  "  We  cannot  help  it.  My  father  has,  at  last,  forbid 
me  to  contradict  the  wish.  Contradiction,  the  physician  him- 
self says,  might  be  as  fatal  as  concession  can  be.  And  my 
father  adds,  in  a  stern,  calm  voice,  which  it  breaks  my  heart 
to  hear,  '  Be  still,  Ellinor.  If  the  innocent  is  to  perish,  the 
sooner  she  joins  him  the  better.  I  would  then  have  all  my 
ties  on  the  other  side  the  grave  !  ' ' 

"  How  that  strange  man  seems  to  have  fascinated  you  all !  " 
said  Walter  bitterly. 

Ellinor  did  not  answer  :  over  her  the  fascination  had  never 
been  to  an  equal  degree  with  the  rest  of  her  family. 

"  Ellinor !  "  said  Walter,  who  had  been  walking  for  the  last 
few  moments  to  and  fro  with  the  rapid  strides  of  a  man  debat- 
ing with  himself,  and  who  now  suddenly  paused,  and  laid  his 
hand  on  his  cousin's  arm — "Ellinor  !  I  am  resolved.  I  aiust, 
for  the  quiet  of  my  soul,  I  must  see  Madeline  this  night,  and 
win  her  forgiveness  for  all  I  have  been  made  the  unintentional 
agent  of  Providence  to  bring  upon  her.  The  peace  of  my 
future  life  may  depend  on  this  single  interview.  What  if 
Aram  be  condemned  ? — and — in  short,  it  is  no  matter — I  must 
see  her." 

"She  would  not  hear  of  it,  I  fear,"  said  Ellinor  in  alarm, 
"  Indeed,  you  cannot  ;  you  do  not  know  her  state  of  mind." 

"  Ellinor  !  "  said  Walter  doggedly,  "I  am  resolved."  AndsO 
saying,  he  moved  towards  the  house. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Ellinor,  whose  nerves  had  been  greatly 
shattered  by  the  scenes  and  sorrow  of  the  last  several  months  ; 
"  if  it  must  be  so,  wait  at  least  till  I  have  gone  in,  and  consulted 
or  prepared  her." 

"  As  you  will,  my  gentlest,  kindest  cousin  ;  I  know  you* 
prudence  and  affection.  I  leave  you  to  obtain  me  this  inter- 
view ;  you  'can,  and  will,  I  am  convinced." 

"  Do  not  be  sanguine,  Walter.  I  can  only  promise  to  use 
my  best  endeavors,"  answered  Ellinor,  blushing  as  he  kissed 
her  hand  ;  and,  hurrying  up  the  walk,  she  disappeared  within 
the  house. 

Walter  walked  for  some  moments  about  the  alley  in  which 
Ellinor  had  left  him  :  but,  growing  impatient,  he  at  length 
wound  through  the  overhanging  trees,  and  the  house  stood 
immediately  before  him, — the  moonlight  shining  full  on  the 


332  EUGENE     ARAM. 

window-panes,  and  sleeping  in  quiet  shadow  over  the  green 
turf  in  front.  He  aproached  yet  nearer,  and  through  one  of 
the  windows,  by  a  single  light  in  the  room,  he  saw  Ellinor  lean- 
ing over  a  couch,  on  which  a  form  reclined,  that  his  heart, 
rather  than  his  sight,  told  him  was  his  once-adored  Madeline. 
He  stopped,  and  his  breath  heaved  thick  ;  he  thought  of  their 
common  home  at  Grassdale,  of  the  old  manor-house,  of  the 
little  parlor,  with  the  woodbine  at  its  casement,  of  the  group 
within,  once  so  happy  and  light-hearted,  of  which  he  had 
formerly  made  the  one  most  buoyant,  and  not  least  loved.  And 
now  this  strange,  this  desolate  house,  himself  estranged 'from 
all  once  regarding  him  (and  those  broken-hearted),  this  night 
ushering  what  a  morrow  !  He  groaned  almost  aloud,  and  re- 
treated once  more  into  the  shadow  of  the  trees.  In  a  few 
minutes  the  door  at  the  right  of  the  building  opened,  and 
Ellinor  came  forth  with  a  quick  step. 

"  Come  in,  dear  Walter,"  said  she  ;  "  Madeline  has  consented 
to  see  you  :  nay,  when  I  told  her  you  were  here,  and  desired 
an  interview,  she  paused  but  for  one  instant,  and  then  begged 
me  to  admit  you." 

"  God  bless  her  !"  said  poor  Walter,  drawing  his  hand  across 
his  eyes,  and  following  Ellinor  to  the  door. 

"  You  will  find  her  greatly  changed  !  "  whispered  Ellinor,  as 
they  gained  the  outer  hall ;  "be  prepared  !" 

Waller  did  not  reply,  save  by  an  expressive  gesture  ;  and 
Ellinor  led  him  into  a  room,  which  communicated  by  one  of 
those  glass  doors  often  to  be  seen  in  the  old-fashioned  houses 
of  country  towns,  with  the  one  in  which  he  had  previously 
seen  Madeline.  With  a  noiseless  step,  and  almost  holding  his 
breath,  he  followed  his  fair  guide  through  this  apartment,  and 
he  now  stood  by  the  couch  on  which  Madeline  still  reclined. 
She  held  out  her  hand  to  him — he  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  with- 
out daring  to  look  her  in  the  face  ;  and  after  a  moment's  pause 
she  said  : 

"So,  you  wished  to  see  me,  Walter  !  It  is  an  anxious  night 
this  for  all  of  us  !  " 

"For  all!"  repeated  Walter  emphatically;  "and  for  me 
not  the  least  !  " 

"We  have  known  some  sad  days  since  we  last  met  ! "  renewed 
Madeline  :  and  there  was  another  and  an  embarrassed  pause. 

"  Madeline — dearest  Madeline  !  "  said  Walter,  and  at  length 
dropping  on  his  knee  ;  "  you,  whom  while  I  was  yet  a  boy,  I 
so  fondly,  passionately,  loved  ;  you  who  yet  are — who,  while 
I  live,  ever  will  be,  so  inexpressibly  dear  to  me — say  but 


ARAlVt.  333 

word  to  me  in  this  uncertain  and  dreadful  epoch  of  our  fate  — 
say  but  one  word  to  me — say  you  feel  you  are  conscious  that 
throughout  these  terrible  events  /  have  not  been  to  blame — 
/  have  riot  willingly  brought  this  affliction  upon  our  house — 
least  of  all  upon  that  heart  which  my  own  would  have  forfeited 
its  best  blood  to  preserve  from  the  slightest  evil  ;  or,  if  you 
will  not  do  me  this  justice,  say  at  least  that  you  forgive  me ! " 

"I  forgive  you,  Walter!  I  do  you  justice,  my  cousin!" 
replied  Madeline,  with  energy,  and  raising  herself  on  her  arm. 
"  It  is  long  since  I  have  felt  how  unreasonable  it  was  to  throw 
any  blame  upon  you — the  mere  and  passive  instrument  of  fate. 
If  I  have  forborne  to  see  you,  it  was  not  from  an  angry  feeling, 
but  from  a  reluctant  weakness.  God  bless  and  preserve  you, 
my  dear  cousin  !  I  know  that  your  own  heart  has  bled  as  pro- 
fusely as  ours  ;  and  it  was  but  this  day  that  I  told  my  father,  if 
we  never  met  again,  to  express  to  you  some  kind  message  as  a 
last  memorial  from  me.  Don't  weep,  Walter  !  It  is  a  fearful 
thing  to  see  men  weep  !  It  is  only  once  that  I  have  seen  him 
weep, — that  was  long,  long  ago  !  He  has  no  tears  in  the  hour  of 
dread  and  danger.  But  no  matter:  this  is  a  bad  world,  Walter, 
and  I  am  tired  of  it.  Are  not  you  ?  Why  do  you  look  so  at  me, 
Ellinor  ?  I  am  not  mad  !  Has  she  told  you  that  I  am,  Wal- 
ter ?  Don't  believe  her  !  Look  at  me  !  I  am  calm  and  col- 
lected !  Yet  to-morrow  is —  O  God  !  O  God  ! — if — if  ! — " 

Madeline  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  became  sud- 
denly silent,  though  only  for  a  short  time  ;  when  she  again  lifted 
up  her  eyes,  they  encountered  those  of  Walter ;  as  through 
those  blinding  and  agonized  tears,  which  are  wrung  from  the 
grief  of  manhood,  he  gazed  upon  that  face  on  which  nothing 
of  herself,  save  the  divine  and  unearthly  expression  which  had 
always  characterized  her  loveliness,  was  left. 

"  Yes,  Walter,  I  am  wearing  fast  away — fast  beyond  the  power 
of  chance  !  Thank  God,  who  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn 
lamb,  if  the  worst  happen,  we  cannot  be  divided  long.  Ere 
another  Sabbath  has  passed,  I  may  be  with  him  in  Paradise. 
What  cause  shall  we  then  have  for  regret  ?" 

Ellinor  flung  herself  on  her  sister's  neck,  sobbing  violently. 
"  Yes,  we  shall  regret  you  are  not  with  us,  Ellinor  ;  but  you 
will  also  soon  grow  tired  of  the  world  ;  it  is  a  sad  place — it  is 
a  wicked  place — it  is  full  of  snares  and  pit-falls.  In  our  walk 
to-day  lies  our  destruction  for  to-morrow!  You  will  find  this 
soon,  Ellinor  !  And  you,  and  my  father,  and  Walter,  too,  shall 
join  us  !  Hark  !  the  clock  strikes  !  By  this  time  to-morrow 
night,  what  triumph  ! — or  to  me  at  least  (sinking  her  voice  into 


334  EUGENE     ARAM. 

a  whisper,  that  thrilled  through  the  very  bones  of  her  listeners), 
what  peace !  " 

Happily  for  all  parties,  this  distressing  scene  was  here  inter- 
rupted. Lester  entered  the  room  with  the  heavy  step  into 
which  his  once  elastic  and  cheerful  tread  had  subsided. 

"  Ha,  Walter  !  "  said  he,  irresolutely  glancing  over  the  group  ; 
but  Madeline  had  already  sprung  from  her  seat. 

"  You  have  seen  him  ! — you  have  seen  him  !  And  how  does 
he — how  does  he  look  ?  But  that  I  know  ;  I  know  his  brave 
heart  does  not  sink.  And  what  message  does  he  send  to  me  ? 
And — and — tell  me  all,  my  father  ;  quick,  quick  !" 

"  Dear,  miserable  child  ! — and  miserable  old  man  ! "  muttered 
Lester,  folding  her  in  his  arms  ;  "  but  we  ought  to  take  cour- 
age and  comfort  from  him,  Madeline.  A  hero,  on  the  eve  of 
battle,  could  not  be  more  firm — even  more  cheerful.  He 
smiled  often — his  old  smile ;  and  he  only  left  tears  and  anxiety  to 
us.  But  of  you,  Madeline,  we  spoke  mostly:  he  would  scarcely 
let  me  say  a  word  on  anything  else.  Oh,  what  a  kind  heart  !— 
what  a  noble  spirit  !  And  perhaps  a  chance  to-morrow  may 
quench  both.  But,  God  !  be  just,  and  let  the  avenging  light- 
ping  fall  on  the  real  criminal,  and  not  blast  the  innocent  man  !  " 

"  Amen  !  "  said  Madeline  deeply. 

"Amen  !  "  repeated  Walter,  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart. 

"  Let  us  pray  !  "  exclaimed  Lester,  animated  by  a  sudden  im- 
pulse, and  falling  on  his  knees.  The  whole  group  followed  his 
example  ;  and  Lester,  in  a  trembling  and  impassioned  voice, 
poured  forth  an  extempore  prayer,  that  justice  might  fall  only 
where  it  was  due.  Never  did  that  majestic  and  pausing  moon, 
which  filled  the  lowly  room  as  with  the  presence  of  a  spirit, 
witness  a  more  impressive  adjuration,  or  an  audience  more  ab- 
sorbed and  rapt.  Full  streamed  its  holy  rays  upon  the  now 
snowy  locks  and  upward  countenance  of  Lester,  making  his 
venerable  person  more  striking  from  the  contrast  it  afforded  to 
the  dark  and  sunburnt  cheek,  the  energetic  features,  and 
chivalricand  earnest  head  of  the  young  man  beside  him.  Just 
in  the  shadow,  the  raven  locks  of  Ellinor  were  bowed  over  her 
clasped  hands, — nothing  of  her  face  visible  ;  the  graceful  neck 
and  heaving  breast  alone  distinguished  from  the  shadow  ; 
and,  hushed  in  a  deathlike  and  solemn  repose,  the  parted  lips 
moving  inaudibly  ;  the  eye  fixed  on  vacancy  ;  the  wan,  trans- 
parent hands,  crossed  upon  her  bosom  ;  the  light  shone  with  a 
more  softened  and  tender  ray  upon  the  faded  but  all-angelic 
form  and  countenance  of  her,  for  whom  Heaven  was  already 
preparing  its  eternal  recompense  for  the  ills  of  Earth  ! 


fcUGENE     ARAM.  33$ 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE    TRIAL. 
"  Equal  to  either  fortune  " — Speech  of  Eugene  Aram. 

A  THOUGHT  comes  over  us,  sometimes,  in  our  career  of 
pleasure,  or  the  troubled  exultation  of  our  ambitious  pursuits : 
a  thought  comes  over  us,  like  a  cloud, — that  around  us  and 
about  us  Death — Shame — Crime — Despair,  are  busy  at  their 
work.  I  have  read  somewhere  of  an  enchanted  land,  where 
the  inmates  walked  along  voluptuous  gardens,  and  built  pal- 
aces, and  heard  music,  and  made  merry :  while  around, 
and  within,  the  land,  were  deep  caverns,  where  the  gnomes  and 
the  fiends  dwelt :  and  eyer  and  anon  their  groans  and  laughter, 
and  the  sounds  of  their  unutterable  toils,  or  ghastly  revels, 
travelled  to  the  upper  air,  mixing  in  an  awful  strangeness  with 
the  summer  festivity  and  buoyant  occupation  of  those  above. 
And  this  is  the  picture  of  human  life  !  These  reflections  of 
the  maddening  disparities  of  the  world  are  dark,  but  salutary: 

"  They  wrap  our  thoughts  at  banquets  in  the  shroud";  * 

but  we  are  seldom  sadder  without  being  also  wiser  men  ! 

The  third  of  August,  1759,  rose  bright,  calm,  and  clear;  it 
was  the  morning  of  the  trial  ;  and  when  Ellinor  stole  into  her 
sister's  room,  she  found  Madeline  sitting  before  the  glass,  and 
braiding  her  rich  locks  with  an  evident  attention  and  care. 

"  I  wish,"  said  she,  "  that  you  had  pleased  me  by  dressing 
as  for  a  holiday.  See,  I  am  going  to  wear  the  dress  I  was  to 
have  been  married  in." 

Ellinor  shuddered  ;  for  what  is  more  appalling  than  to  find 
the  signs  of  gayety  accompanying  the  reality  of  anguish  ! 

"Yes,"  continued  Madeline,  with  a  smile  of  inexpressible 
sweetness,  "a  little  reflection  will  convince  you  that  this  day 
ought  not  to  be  one  of  mourning.  It  was  the  suspense  that  has 
so  worn  out  our  hearts.  If  he  is  acquitted,  as  we  all  believe 
and  trust,  think  how  appropriate  will  be  the"  outward  seeming 
of  our  joy  !  If  not,  why  I  shall  go  before  him  to  our  marriage 
home,  and  in  marriage  garments.  Ay,"  she  added,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  and  with  a  much  more  grave,  settled,  and 
intense  expression  of  voice  and  countenance — "ay;  do  you 
remember  how  Eugene  once  told  us,  that  if  we  went  at  noon- 

*  Young. 


336  EUGENE      ARAM.. 

day  to  the  bottom  of  a  deep  pit,*  we  should  be  able  to  see  the 
stars,  which  on  the  level  ground  are  invisible  ?  Even  so, 
from  the  depths  of  grief — worn,  wretched,  seared,  and  dying — 
the  blessed  apparitions  and  tokens  of  heaven  make  themselves 
visible  to  our  eyes.  And  I  know — I  have  seen — I  feel  here," 
pressing  her  hand  on  her  heart,  "  that  my  course  is  run  ;  a  few- 
sands  only  are  left  in  the  glass.  Let  us  waste  them  bravely. 
Stay,  Ellinor  !  You  see  these  poor  withered  rose-leaves  :  Eu- 
gene gave  them  to  me  the  day  before — before  that  fixed  for 
our  marriage.  I  shall  wear  them  to-day,  as  I  would  have  worn 
them  on  the  wedding-day.  When  he  gathered  the  poor  flower, 
how  fresh  it  was  ;  and  I  kissed  off  the  dew  :  now  see  it  !  But 
come,  come  ;  this  is  trifling  :  we  must  not  be  late.  Help  me, 
Nell,  help  me  :  come,  bustle,  quick,  quick  !  Nay,  be  not  so 
slovenly  ;  I  told  you  I  would  be  dressed  with  care  to-day." 

And  when  Madeline  was  dressed,  though  the  robe  sat  loose 
and  in  large  folds  over  her  shrunken  form,  yet,  as  she  stood 
erect,  and  looked  with  a  smile  that  saddened  Ellinor  more  than 
tears  at  her  image  in  the  glass,  perhaps  her  beauty  never 
seemed  of  a  more  striking  and  lofty  character, — she  looked,  in- 
deed, a  bride,  but  the  bride  of  no  earthly  nuptials.  Presently 
they  heard  an  irresolute  and  trembling  step  at  the  door,  and 
Lester  knocking,  asked  if  they  were  prepared. 

"  Come  in,  father,"  said  Madeline,  in  a  calm  and  even  cheer- 
ful voice  ;  and  the  old  man  entered. 

He  cast  a  silent  glance  over  Madeline's  white  dress,  and 
then  at  his  own,  which  was  deep  mourning :  the  glance  said 
volumes,  and  its  meaning  was  not  marred  by  words  from  any 
one  of  the  three. 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  Madeline,  breaking  the  pause, — "  we  are 
all  ready.  Is  the  carriage  here  ?  " 

"  It  is  at  the  door,  my  child." 

"  Come,  then,  Ellinor,  come !  "  and  leaning  on  her  arm, 
Madeline  walked  towards  the  door.  When  she  got  to  the 
threshold,  she  paused,  and  looked  round  the  room. 

"  What  is  it  you  want  ?  "  asked  Ellinor. 

"  I  was  but  bidding  all  here  farewell,"  repled  Madeline,  in  a 
soft  and  touching  voice.  "  And  now  before  we  leave  the  house, 
father, — sister,  one  word  with  you  ;  you  have  ever  been  very, 
very  kind  to  me,  and  most  of  all  in  this  bitter  trial,  when  I 
must  have  taxed  your  patience  sadly — for  I  know  all  is  not 
right  here  (touching  her  forehead), — I  cannot  go  forth  this  day 

*  The  remark  is  in  Aristotle.     Buffon  quotes  it,  with  his  usual  adroit  felicity,  in,  I  think, 
the  first  volume  of  his  great  work. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  337 

without  thanking  you.  Ellinor,  my  dearest  friend — my  fond' 
est  sister — my  playmate  in  gladness — my  comforter  in  grief-— 
my  nurse  in  sickness, — since  we  were  little  children,  we  have 
talked  together,  and  laughed  together,  and  wept  together,  and 
though  we  knew  all  the  thoughts  of  each  other,  we  have  never 
known  one  thought  that  we  would  have  concealed  from  God  ! 
and  now  we  are  going  to  part  ! — do  not  stop  me,  it  must  be  so, 
I  know  it.  But,  after  a  little  while  may  you  be  happy  again  ; 
not  so  buoyant  as  you  have  been — that  can  never  be,  but  still 
happy  !  You  are  formed  for  love  and  home,  and  for  those  ties 
you  once  thought  would  be  mine.  God  grant  that  /  may  have 
suffered  for  us  both,  and  that  when  we  meet  hereafter  you  may 
tell  me  you  have  been  happy  here  !  " 

"  But  you,  father,"  added  Madeline,  tearing  herself  from  the 
neck  of  her  weeping  sister,  and  sinking  on  her  knees  before 
Lester,  who  leaned  against  the  wall  convulsed  with  his  emotions, 
and  covering  his  face  with  his  hands — "  but  you, — what  can  I 
say  to  you  ?  You,  who  have  never, — no,  not  in  my  first  child- 
hood, said  one  harsh  word  to  me — who  have  sunk  all  a  father's 
authority  in  a  father's  love, — how  can  I  say  all  that  I  feel  for 
you  ? — the  grateful,  overflowing  (painful,  yet  oh,  how  sweet !  ) 
remembrances  which  crowd  around  and  suffocate  me  now  ? 
The  time  will  come  when  Ellinor  and  Ellinor's  children  must 
be  all  in  all  to  you — when  of  your  poor  Madeline  nothing  will 
be  left  but  a  memory  ;  but  they,  they  will  watch  on  you  and 
tend  you,  and  protect  your  gray  hairs  from  sorrow,  as  I  might 
once  have  hoped  I  also  was  fated  to  do." 

"  My  child  !  my  child  !  you  break  my  heart !  "  faltered  forth 
at  last  the  poor  old  man,  who  till  now  had  in  vain  endeavored 
to  speak. 

"  Give  me  your  blessing,  dear  father,"  said  Madeline,  herselt 
overcome  by  her  feelings.  Put  your  hand  on  my  head  and 
bless  me — and  say,  that  if  I  have  ever  unconsciously  given  you 
a  moment's  pain,  I  am  forgiven  !  " 

"  Forgiven  !  "  repeated  Lester,  raising  his  daughter  with 
weak  and  trembling  arms,  as  his  tears  fell  fast  upon  her  cheek: 
"  never  did  I  feel  what  an  angel  had  sat  beside  my  hearth  till 
now  !  But  be  comforted — be  cheered.  What,  if  heaven  had 
reserved  its  crowning  mercy  till  this  day,  and  Eugene  be 
amongst  us,  free,  acquitted,  triumphant  before  the  night !  " 

"  Ha  !  "  said  Madeline,  as  if  suddenly  roused  by  the  thought 
into  new  life: — "ha!  let  us  hasten  to  find  your  words  true. 
Yes  !  yes  ! — if  it  should  be  so — if  it  should.  And,"  added  she 
in  a  hollow  voice  (the  enthusiasm  checked),  "  if  it  were  not  for 


338  EUGENE    ARAM. 

my  dreams,  I  might  believe  it  would  be  so  : — but — come — I  am 
ready  now  !  " 

The  carriage  went  slowly  through  the  crowd  that  the  fame 
of  the  approaching  trial  had  gathered  along  the  streets,  but  the 
blinds  were  drawn  down,  and  the  father  and  daughter  escaped 
that  worst  of  tortures,  the  curious  gaze  of  strangers  on  distress. 
Places  had  been  kept  for  them  in  court,  and  as  they  left  the 
carriage  and  entered  the  fatal  spot,  the  venerable  figure  of 
Lester,  and  the  trembling  and  veiled  forms  that  clung  to  him, 
arrested  all  eyes.  They  at  length  gained  their  seats,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  a  bustle  in  the  court  drew  off  attention 
from  them.  A  buzz,  a  murmur,  a  movement,  a  dread  pause  ! 
Houseman  was  first  arraigned  on  his  former  indictment,  ac- 
quitted, and  admitted  evidence  against  Aram,  who  was  there- 
upon arraigned.  The  prisoner  stood  at  the  bar  !  Madeline 
gasped  for  breath,  and  clung,  with  a  convulsive  motion,  to  her 
sister's  arm.  But  presently,  with  a  long  sigh,  she  recovered 
her  self-possession,  and  sat  quiet  and  silent,  fixing  her  eyes 
upon  Aram's  countenance  ;  and  the  aspect  of  that  countenance 
was  well  calculated  to  sustain  her  courage,  and  to  mingle  a  sort 
of  exulting  pride  with  all  the  strained  and  fearful  acuteness  of 
her  sympathy.  Something,  indeed,  of  what  he  had  suffered 
was  visible  in  the  prisoner's  features ;  the  lines  around  the 
mouth,  in  which  mental  anxiety  generally  most  deeply  writes 
its  traces,  were  grown  marked  and  furrowed ;  gray  hairs  were 
here  and  there  scattered  amongst  the  rich  and  long  luxuriance 
of  the  dark  brown  locks,  and  as,  before  his  imprisonment,  he 
had  seemed  considerably  younger  than  he  was,  so  now  time 
had  atoned  for  its  past  delay,  and  he  might  have  appeared  to 
have  told  more  years  than  had  really  gone  over  his  head  ;  but 
the  remarkable  light  and  beauty  of  his  eye  was  undimmed  as 
ever,  and  still  the  broad  expanse  of  his  forehead  retained  its 
unwrinkled  surface  and  striking  expression  of  calmness  and 
majesty.  High,  self-collected,  serene,  and  undaunted, he  looked 
upon  the  crowd,  the  scene,  the  judge,  before  and  around  him  ; 
and,  even  on  those  who  believed  him  guilty,  that  involuntary 
and  irresistible  respect  which  moral  firmness  always  produces 
on  the  mind,  forced  an  unwilling  interest  in  his  fate,  and  even 
a  reluctant  hope  of  his  acquittal. 

Houseman  was  called  upon.  No  one  could  regard  his  face 
without  a  certain  mistrust  and  inward  shudder.  In  men  prone 
to  cruelty,  it  has  generally  been  remarked  that  there  is  an  ani- 
mal expression  strongly  prevalent  in  the  countenance.  The 
murderer  and  the  lustful  man  are  often  alike  in  the  physical 


EUGENE     ARAM.  339 

structure.  The  bull-throat,  the  thick  lips,  the  receding  fore- 
head, the  fierce,  restless  eye,  which  some  one  or  other  says  re- 
minds you  of  the  buffalo  in  the  instant  before  he  becomes  dan- 
gerous, are  the  outward  tokens  of  the  natural  animal  unsoftened, 
unenlightened,  unredeemed,  consulting  only  the  immediate 
desires  of  his  nature,  whatever  be  the  passion  (lust  or  revenge) 
to  which  they  prompt.  And  this  animal  expression,  the  wit- 
ness of  his  character,  was  especially  stamped  upon  Houseman's 
rugged  and  harsh  features  ;  rendered,  if  possible,  still  more 
remarkable  at  that  time  by  a  mixture  of  sullenness  and  timid- 
ity. The  conviction  that  his  own  life  was  saved  could  not 
prevent  remorse  at  his  treachery  in  accusing  his  comrade — a 
confused  principle  of  honor  of  which  villains  are  the  most  sus- 
ceptible when  every  other  honest  sentiment  has  deserted  them. 

With  a  low,  choked,  and  sometimes  a  faltering  tone,  House- 
man deposed,  that,  in  the  night  between  the  7th  and  8th  of 
January,  1744-5,  some  time  before  eleven  o'clock,  he  went  to 
Aram's  house  ;  that  they  conversed  on  different  matters  ;  that 
he  stayed  there  about  an  hour  ;  that  some  three  hours  after- 
wards he  passed,  in  company  with  Clarke,  by  Aram's  house,  and 
Aram  was  outside  the  door,  as  if  he  were  about  to  return  home  ; 
that  Aram  invited  them  both  to  come  in  ;  that  they  did  so  ; 
that  Clarke,  who  intended  to  leave  the  town  before  daybreak, 
in  order,  it  was  acknowledged,  to  make  secretly  away  with  cer- 
tain property  in  his  possession,  was  about  to  quit  the  house, 
when  Aram  proposed  to  accompany  him  out  of  the  town  ;  that 
he  (Aram)  and  Houseman  then  went  forth  with  Clarke  ;  that' 
when  they  came  into  the  field  where  St.  Robert's  Cave  is, 
Aram  and  Clarke  went  into  it,  over  the  hedge,  and  when  they 
came  within  six  or  eight  yards  of  the  cave,  he  saw  them  quar- 
relling ;  that  he  saw  Aram  strike  Clarke  several  times,  upon 
which  Clarke  fell,  and  he  never  saw  him  rise  again  ;  that  he 
saw  no  instrument  Aram  had,  and  knew  not  that  he  had  any  ; 
that  upon  this,  without  any  interposition  or  alarm,  he  left  them 
and  returned  home  ;  that  the  next  morning  he  went  to  Aram's 
house,  and  asked  what  business  he  had  with  Clarke  last  night, 
and  what  he  had  done  with  him  ?  Aram  replied  not  to  this 
question  ;  but  threatened  him,  if  he  spoke  of  his  being  in 
Clarke's  company  that  night  ;  vowing  revenge,  either  by  him- 
self or  some  other  person,  if  he  mentioned  anything  relating  to 
the  affair.  This  was  the  sum  of  Houseman's  evidence. 

A  Mr.  Beckwith  was  next  called,  who  deposed  that  Aram's 
garden  had  been  searched,  owing  to  a  vague  suspicion  that  he 
might  have  been  an  accomplice  in  the  frauds  of  Clarke  ;  that 


340  EUGENE     ARAM. 

some  parts  of  clothing,  and  also  some  pieces  of  cambric  which 
he  had  sold  to  Clarke  a  little  while  before,  were  found  there. 

The  third  witness  was  the  watchman,  Thomas  Barnet,  who 
deposed,  that  before  midnight  (it  might  be  a  little  after  eleven) 
he  saw  a  person  come  out  from  Aram's  house,  who  had  a  wide 
coat  on,  with  the  cape  about  his  head,  and  seemed  to  shun 
him  ;  whereupon  he  went  up  to  him,  and  put  by  the  cape  of 
his  great-coat,  and  perceived  it  to  be  Richard  Houseman.  He 
contented  himself  with  wishing  him  good-night. 

The  officers  who  executed  the  warrant  then  gave  their  evi- 
dence as  to  the  arrest,  and  dwelt  on  some  expressions  dropped 
by  Aram  before  he  arrived  at  Knaresborough,  which,  however, 
were  felt  to  be  wholly  unimportant. 

After  this  evidence  there  was  a  short  pause  :  and  then  a 
shiver, — that  recoil  and  tremor  which  men  feel  at  any  exposi- 
tion of  the  relics  of  the  dead, — ran  through  the  court  ;  for  the 
next  witness  was  mute — it  was  the  skull  of  the  deceased  !  On 
the  left  side  there  was  a  fracture,  that  from  the  nature  of  it 
seemed  as  it  could  only  have  been  made  by  the  stroke  of  some 
blunt  instrument.  The  piece  was  broken,  and  could  not  be 
replaced  but  from  within. 

The  surgeon,  Mr.  Locock,  who  produced  it,  gave  it  as  his 
opinion  that  no  such  breach  could  proceed  from  natural  decay — 
that  it  was  not  a  recent  fracture,  by  the  instrument  with  which 
it  was  dug  up,  but  seemed  to  be  of  many  years'  standing. 

This  made  the  chief  part  of  the  evidence  against  Aram  ;  the 
minor  points  we  have  omitted,  and  also  such  as,  like  that  of 
Aram's  hostess,  would  merely  have  repeated  what  the  reader 
knew  before. 

And  now  closed  the  criminatory  evidence — and  now  the 
prisoner  was  asked  the  thrilling  and  awful  question,  "  What  he 
had  to  say  in  his  own  behalf?"  Till  now,  Aram  had  not 
changed  his  posture  or  his  countenance  ;  his  dark  and  piercing 
eye  had  for  one  instant  fixed  on  each  witness  that  appeared 
against  him,  and  then  dropped  its  gaze  upon  the  ground.  But 
at  this  moment,  a  faint  hectic  flushed  his  cheek,  and  he  seemed 
to  gather  and  knit  himself  up  for  defence.  He  glanced  round 
the  court  as  if  to  see  what  had  been  the  impression  created 
against  him.  His  eye  rested  on  the  gray  locks  of  Rowland 
Lester,  who,  looking  down,  had  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
But  beside  that  venerable  form  was  the  still  and  marble  face 
of  Madeline  ;  and  even  at  that  distance  from  him,  Aram  per- 
ceived how  intent  was  the  hushed  suspense  of  her  emotions. 
But  when  she  caught  his  eye — that  eye  which,  even  at  such  a 


EUGENE     ARAM.  341 

moment,  beamed  unutterable  love,  pity,  regret  for  her — a  wild, 
a  convulsive  smile  of  encouragement,  of  anticipated  triumph, 
booke  the  repose  of  her  colorless  features,  and  suddenly  dying 
away,  left  her  lips  apart,  in  that  expression  which  the  great 
masters  of  old,  faithful  to  nature,  give  alike  to  the  struggle  of 
hope  and  the  pause  of  terror. 

"  My  lord,"  began  Aram,  in  that  remarkable  defence  still 
extant,  and  still  considered  as  wholly  unequalled  from  the  lips 
of  one  defending  his  own  cause  :  "  My  lord,  I  know  not  whether 
it  is  of  right,  or  through  some  indulgence  of  your  lordship,  that 
I  am  allowed  the  liberty  at  this  bar,  and  at  this  time,  to  attempt 
a  defence  ;  incapable  and  un instructed  as  I  am  to  speak.  Since, 
while  I  see  so  many  eyes  upon  me,  so  numerous  and  awful  a 
concourse,  fixed  with  attention,  and  filled  with  I  know  not  what 
expectancy,  I  labor,  not  with  guilt,  my  lord,  but  with  perplexity. 
For,  having  never  seen  a  court  but  this,  being  wholly  unac- 
quainted with  law,  the  customs  of  the  bar,  and  all  judiciary 
proceedings,  I  fear  I  shall  be  so  little  capable  of  speaking  with 
propriety,  that  it  might  reasonably  be  expected  to  exceed  my 
hope,  should  I  be  able  to  speak  at  all. 

"  I  have  heard,  my  lord,  the  indictment  read,  wherein  I  find 
myself  charged  with  the  highest  of  human  crimes.  You  will 
grant  me,  then,  your  patience,  if  I,  single  and  unskilful,  desti- 
tute of  friends,  and  unassisted  by  counsel,  attempt  something, 
perhaps,  like  argument,  in  my  defence.  What  I  have  to  say 
will  be  but  short,  and  that  brevity  may  be  the  best  part  of  it. 

"  My  lord,  the  tenor  of  my  life  contradicts  this  indictment. 
Who  can  look  back  over  what  is  known  of  my  former  years,  and 
charge  me  with  one  vice — one  offence  ?  No  !  I  concerted 
not  schemes  of  fraud — projected  no  violence — injured  no  man's 
property  or  person.  My  days  were  honestly  laborious — my 
nights  intensely  studious.  This  egotism  is  not  presumptuous — 
is  not  unreasonable.  What  man,  after  a  temperate  use  of  life, 
a  series  of  thinking  and  acting  regularly,  without  one  single 
deviation  from  a  sober  and  even  tenorof  conduct,  ever  plunged 
into  the  depth  of  crime  precipitately,  and  at  once  ?  Mankind 
are  not  instantaneously  corrupted.  Villany  is  always  progres- 
sive. We  decline  from  right — not  suddenly,  but  step  after  step. 

"  If  my  life  in  general  contradicts  the  indictment,  my  health, 
at  that  time  in  particular,  contradicts  it  more.  A  little  time 
before,  I  had  been  confined  to  my  bed — I  had  suffered  under 
a  long  and  severe  disorder.  The  distemper  left  me  but  slowly, 
and  in  part.  So  far  from  being  well  at  the  time  I  was  charged 
with  this  fact,  I  never,  to  this  day,  perfectly  recovered.  Could 


342  EUGENE      ARAM. 

n  person  in  this  condition  execute  violence  against  another? — 
I,  feeble  and  valetudinary,  with  no  inducement  to  engage — no 
ability  to  accomplish — no  weapon  wherewith  to  perpetrate  such 
a  fact, — without  interest,  without  power,  without  motives, 
without  means  ! 

"  My  lord,  Clarke  disappeared  ;  true  :  but  is  that  a  proof  of 
his  death  ?  The  fallibility  of  all  conclusions  of  such  a  sort, 
from  such  a  circumstance,  is  too  obvious  to  require  instances. 
One  instance  is  before  you  :  this  very  castle  affords  it. 

"  In  June,  1757,  William  Thompson,  amidst  all  the  vigilance 
of  this  place,  in  open  daylight,  and  double-ironed,  made  his 
escape,  notwithstanding  an  immediate  inquiry  set  on  foot  ; 
notwithstanding  all  advertisements,  all  search,  he  was  never 
seen  or  heard  of  since.  If  this  man  escaped  unseen,  through 
all  these  difficulties,  how  easy  for  Clarke,  whom  no  difficulties 
opposed  !  Yet  what  would  be  thought  of  a  prosecution  com- 
menced against  any  one  seen  last  with  Thompson  ? 

"  These  bones  are  discovered  !  Where  ?  Of  all  places  in 
the  world,  can  we  think  of  any  one,  except,  indeed,  the  church- 
yard, where  there  is  so  great  a  certainty  of  finding  human 
bones,  as  a  hermitage  ?  In  time  past  the  hermitage  was  a  place, 
not  only  of  religious  retirement,  but  of  burial.  And  it  has 
scarce,  or  never,  been  heard  of,  but  that  every  cell  now  known 
contains  or  contained  these  relics  of  humanity  ;  some  mutilated — 
some  entire  !  Give  me  leave  to  remind  your  lordship,  that 
here  sat  SOLITARY  SANCTITY,  and  here  the  hermit  and  the 
anchorite  hoped  that  repose  for  their  bones  when  dead,  they 
here  enjoyed  when  living.  I  glance  over  a  few  of  the  many 
evidences  that  these  cells  were  used  as  repositories  of  the  dead, 
and  enumerate  a  few  of  the  many  caves  similar  in  origin  to  St. 
Robert's,  in  which  human  bones  have  been  found."  Here  the 
prisoner  instanced,  with  remarkable  felicity,  several  places  in 
which  bones  had  been  found,  under  circumstances,  and  in  spots, 
analogous  to  those  in  point.*  And  the  reader,  who  will  re- 
member that  it  is  the  great  principle  of  the  law,  that  no  man 
can  be  condemned  for  murder,  unless  the  remains  of  the  de- 
ceased be  found,  will  perceive  at  once  how  important  this  point 
was  to  the  prisoner's  defence.  After  concluding  his  instances 
with  two  facts,  of  skeletons  found  in  fields  in  the  vicinity  of 
Knaresbro',  he  burst  forth  : 

"  Is,  then,  the  invention  of  those  bones  forgotten  or  industri 
ously  concealed,  that  the  discovery  of  these  in  question  may 
appear  the  more  extraordinary  ?  Extraordinary — yet  how 

*  See  his  published  defence. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  343 

common  an  event !  Every  place  conceals  such  remains.  In 
fields — in  hills — in  highway  sides — on  wastes — on  commons, 
lie  frequent  and  unsuspected  bones.  And  mark — no  example, 
perhaps,  occurs  of  more  than  one  skeleton  being  found  in  one 
cell.  Here  you  find  but  one,  agreeable  to  the  peculiarity  of 
every  known  cell  in  Britain.  Had  two  skeletons  been  dis- 
covered, then  alone  might  the  fact  have  seemed  suspicious  and 
uncommon.  What !  Have  we  forgotten  how  difficult,  as  in 
the  case  of  Perkin  Warbec,  and  Lambert  Symnell,  it  has  been 
sometimes  to  identify  the  living  ;  and  shall  we  now  assign 
personality  to  bones — bones  which  may  belong  to  either  sex  ? 
How  know  you  that  this  is  even  the  skeleton  of  a  man  ?  But 
another  skeleton  was  discovered  by  some  laborer?  Was  not 
that  skeleton  averred  to  be  Clarke's,  full  as  confidently  as  this  ? 

"  My  lord,  my  lord — must  some  of  the  living  be  made  answer- 
able for  all  the  bones  that  earth  has  concealed,  and  chance 
exposed  ?  The  skull  that  has  been  produced  has  been  declared 
fractured.  But  who  can  surely  tell  whether  it  was  the  cause 
or  the  consequence  of  death?  In  May,  1732,  the  remains  of 
William  Lord  Archbishop  of  this  province  were  taken  up  by 
permission  in  their  cathedral  ;  the  bones  of  the  skull  were 
found  broken,  as  these  are  :  yet  he  died  by  no  violence  ! — by 
no  blow  that  could  have  caused  that  fracture.  Let  it  be  con- 
sidered how  easily  the  fracture  on  the  skull  produced  is 
accounted  for.  At  the  dissolution  of  religious  houses,  the 
ravages  of  the  times  affected  both  the  living  and  the  dead.  In 
search  after  imaginary  treasures,  coffins  were  broken,  graves 
and  vaults  dug  open,  monuments  ransacked,  shrines  demolished  ; 
Parliament  itself  was  called  in  to  restrain  these  violations. 
And  now,  are  the  depredations,  the  iniquities  of  those  times  to 
be  visited  on  this  ?  But  here,  above  all,  was  a  castle  vigorously 
besieged  ;  every  spot  around  was  the  scene  of  a  sally,  a  con- 
flict, a  flight,  a  pursuit.  Where  the  slaughtered  fell,  there  were 
they  buried.  What  place  is  not  burial  earth  in  war  ?  How 
many  bones  must  still  remain  in  the  vicinity  of  that  siege,  for 
futurity  to  discover  !  Can  you,  then,  with  so  many  probable 
circumstances,  choose  the  one  least  probable  ?  Can  you  impute 
to  the  living  what  zeal  in  its  fury  may  have  done  ;  what  nature 
may  have  taken  off  and  piety  interred  ;  or  what  war  alone  may 
have  destroyed,  alone  deposited? 

"And  now,  glance  over  the  circumstantial  evidence — how 
weak — how  frail !  I  almost  scorn  to  allude  to  it.  I  will  not 
condescend  to  dwell  upon  it.  The  witness  of  one  man,— 
arraigned  himself !  Is  there  no  chance,  that,  to  save  his  own 


344  EUGENE      ARAM. 

life,  he  might  conspire  against  mine? — no  chance,  that  he  might 
have  committed  this  murder,  */ murder  hath  indeed  been  done? 
that  conscience  betrayed  to  his  first  exclamation  ?  that  craft 
suggested  his  throwing  that  guilt  on  me,  to  the  knowledge  of 
which  he  had  unwittingly  confessed?  He  declares  that  he  saw 
me  strike  Clarke — that  he  saw  him  fall ;  yet  he  utters  no  cry, 
no  reproof.  He  calls  for  no  aid  ;  he  returns  quietly  home  ;  he 
declares  that  he  knows  not  what  became  of  the  body,  yet  he 
tells  where  the  body  is  laid.  He  declares  that  he  went  straight 
home,  and  alone  ;  yet  the  woman  with  whom  I  lodged  deposes 
that  Houseman  and  I  returned  to  my  house  in  company 
together ;  what  evidence  is  this  ?  and  from  whom  does  it 
come?  ask  yourselves.  As  for  the  rest  of  the  evidence,  what 
does  it  amount  to?  The  watchman  sees  Houseman  leave  my 
house  at  night.  What  more  probable — but  what  less  connected 
wiih  the  murder,  real  or  supposed,  of  Clarke  ?  Some  pieces  of 
clothing  are  found  buried  in  my  garden  ;  but  how  can  it  be 
shown  that  they  belonged  to  Clarke  ?  Who  can  swear  to — who 
can  prove  anything  so  vague?  And  if  found  there,  even  if 
belonging  to  Clarke,  what  proof  that  they  were  there  deposited 
by  me?  How  likely  that  the  real  criminal  may,  in  the  dead  of 
night,  have  preferred  any  spot,  rather  than  that  round  his  own 
home,  to  conceal  the  evidence  of  his  crime? 

"  How  impotent  such  evidence  as  this  !  and  how  poor,  how 
precarious,  even  the  strongest  of  mere  circumstantial  evidence 
invariably  is !  Let  it  rise  to  probability,  to  the  strongest 
degree  of  probability  ;  it  is  but  probability  still.  Recollect  the 
case  of  the  two  Harrisons,  recorded  by  Dr.  Howell ;  both  suf- 
fered on  circumstantial  evidence  on  account  of  the  disappear- 
ance of  a  man  who,  like  Clarke,  contracted  debts,  borrowed 
money,  and  went  off  unseen.  And  this  man  returned  several 
years  after  their  execution.  Why  remind  you  of  Jacques  du 
Moulin,  in  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second  ? — why  of  the  un- 
happy Coleman,  convicted,  though  afterwards  found  innocent, 
and  whose  children  perished  for  want,  because  the  world  be- 
lieved the  father  guilty  ?  Why  should  I  mention  the  perjury 
of  Smith,  who,  admitted  king's  evidence,  screened  himself  by 
accusing  Fainloth  and  Lovedayof  the  murder  of  Dunn  ?  The 
first  was  executed,  the  second  was  about  to  share  the  same 
fate,  when  the  perjury  of  Smith  was  incontrovertibly  proved. 

"And  now,  my  lord,  having  endeavored  to  show  that  the 
whole  of  this  charge  is  altogether  repugnant  to  every  part  of 
my  life  ;  that  it  is  inconsistent  with  my  condition  of  health 
about  that  time ;  that  no  rational  inference  of  the  death  of  a 


EUGENE     ARAM.  345 

person  can  be  drawn  from  his  disappearance ;  that  hermitages 
were  the  constant  repositories  of  the  bones  of  the  recluse  ; 
that  th  ^  proofs  of  these  are  well  authenticated  ;  that  the  revo- 
lution in  religion,  or  the  fortunes  of  war,  have  mangled  or 
buried  the  dead  ;  that  the  strongest  circumstantial  evidence  is 
often  lamentably  fallacious  ;  that  in  my  case,  that  evidence,  so 
far  from  being  strong,  is  weak,  disconnected,  contradictory, — 
what  remains  ?  A  conclusion,  perhaps,  no  less  reasonably  than 
impatiently  wished  for.  I,  at  last,  after  nearly  a  year's  confine- 
ment, equal  to  either  fortune,  intrust  myself  to  the  candor,  the 
justice,  the  humanity  of  your  lordship,  and  to  yours,  my  coun- 
trymen, gentlemen  of  the  jury." 

The  prisoner  ceased  ;  and  the  painful  and  choking  sensa- 
tions of  sympathy,  compassion,  regret,  admiration,  all  uniting, 
all  mellowing  into  one  fearful  hope  for  his  acquittal,  made 
themselves  felt  through  the  crowded  court. 

In  two  persons  only  an  uneasy  sentiment  remained — a  senti- 
ment that  the  prisoner  had  not  completed  that  which  they 
would  have  asked  from  him.  The  one  was  Lester  ;  he  had 
expected  a  more  warm,  a  more  earnest,  though,  perhaps,  a  less 
ingenious  and  artful  defence.  He  had  expected  Aram  to  dwell 
far  more  on  the  improbable  and  contradictory  evidence  of 
Houseman  ;  and  above  all,  to  have  explained  away  all  that  was 
still  left  unaccounted  for  in  his  acquaintance  with  Clarke  (as 
we  will  still  called  the  deceased),  and  the  allegation  that  he 
had  gone  out  with  him  on  the  fatal  night  of  the  disappearance 
of  the  latter.  At  every  word  of  the  prisoner's  defence,  he  had 
waited  almost  breathlessly,  in  the  hope  that  the  next  sentence 
would  begin  an  explanation  or  a  denial  on  this  point  ;  and 
when  Aram  ceased,  a  chill,  a  depression,  a  disappointment,  re- 
mained vaguely  on  his  mind.  Yet  so  lightly  and  so  haughtily 
had  Aram  approached  and  glanced  over  the  immediate  evi- 
dence of  the  witnesses  against  him,  that  his  silence  here  might 
have  been  but  the  natural  result  of  a  disdain  that  belonged  es- 
sentially to  his  calm  and  proud  character.  The  other  person 
we  referred  to,  and  whom  his  defence  had  not  impressed  with  a 
belief  in  its  truth,  equal  to  an  admiration  for  its  skill,  was  one  far 
more  important  in  deciding  the  prisoner's  fate — it  was  the  judge  ! 

But  Madeline — alas!  alas!  how  sanguine  is  a  woman's  heart, 
when  the  innocence,  the  fate  of  the  one  she  loves  is  concerned  ! — 
a  radiant  flush  broke  over  a  face  so  colorless  before  ;  and  with 
a  joyous  look,  a  kindled  eye,  a  lofty  brow,  she  turned  to  Ellinor, 
pressed  her  hand  in  silence,  and  once  more  gave  up  her  whole 
soul  to  the  dread  procedure  of  the  court. 


346  EUGENE     ARAM. 

The  judge  now  began.  It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  we 
have  no  minute  and  detailed  memorial  of  the  trial,  except  only 
the  prisoner's  defence.  The  summing  up  of  the  judge  was  of 
considered  at  that  time  scarcely  less  remarkable  than  the  speech 
of  the  prisoner.  He  stated  the  evidence  with  peculiar  care  and 
at  great  length  to  the  jury.  He  observed  how  the  testimony  of 
the  other  deponents  confirmed  that  of  Houseman  ;  and  then, 
touching  on  the  contradictory  parts  of  the  latter,  he  made  them 
understand  how  natural,  how  inevitable, was  some  such  contradic- 
tion in  a  witness  who  had  not  only  to  give  evidence  against  an- 
other, but  to  refrain  from  criminating  himself.  There  could  be 
no  doubt  but  that  Houseman  was  an  accomplice  in  the  crime  ; 
and  all  therefore  that  seemed  improbable  in  his  giving  no  alarm 
when  the  deed  was  done,  etc.,  etc.,  was  easily  rendered  natural 
and  reconcilable  with  the  other  parts  of  his  evidence.  Comment- 
ing then  on  the  defence  of  the  prisoner  (who,  as  if  disdaining  to 
rely  on  aught  save  his  own  genius  or  his  own  innocence,  had 
called  no  witnesses,  as  he  had  employed  no  counsel),  and 
eulogizing  its  eloquence  and  art,  till  he  destroyed  their  effect,  by 
guarding  the  jury  against  that  impression  which  eloquence  and 
art  produce  in  defiance  of  simple  fact,  he  contended  that  Aram 
had  yet  alleged  nothing  to  invalidate  the  positive  evidence 
against  him. 

I  have  often  heard,  from  men  accustomed  to  courts  of  law,  that 
nothing  is  more  marvellous  than  the  sudden  change  in  the  mind 
of  a  jury,  which  the  summing  up  of  the  judge  can  produce  ;  and 
in  the  present  instance  it  was  like  magic.  That  fatal  look  of  a 
common  intelligence,  of  a  common  assent,  was  exchanged 
among  the  doomers  of  the  prisoner's  life  and  death  as  the  judge 
concluded. 


They  found  the  prisoner  guilty. 

******** 

The  judge  drew  on  the  black  cap. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Aram  received  his  sentence  in  profound  composure.  Before 
he  left  the  bar,  he  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  and  looked 
slowly  around  the  court  with  that  thrilling  and  almost  sublime 
unmovedness  of  aspect,  which  belonged  to  him  alone  of  all  men, 
and  which  was  rendered  yet  more  impressive  by  a  smile — slight 
but  eloquent  beyond  all  words — of  a  soul  collected  in  itself  :  no 
forced  and  convulsive  effort  vainly  masking  the  terror  or  the 


EUGENE      ARAM.  347 

pang  ;  no  mockery  of  self  that  would  mimic  contempt  for 
others,  but  more  in  majesty  than  bitterness  ;  rather  as  daring 
fate  than  defying  the  judgment  of  others  ;  rather  as  if  he 
wrapped  himself  in  the  independence  of  a  quiet,  than  the 
disdain  of  a  despairing,  heart ! 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE   DEATH. — THE    PRISON. AN    INTERVIEW. — ITS    RESULT. 

"...   Lay  her  i'  the  earth  ; 
And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 
May  violets  spring. 
*  *  *  * 

See  in  my  heart  there  was  a  kind  of  fighting 
That  would  not  let  me  sleep." — Hamlet. 

"  BEAR  with  me  a  little  longer,"  said  Madeline  ;  "  I  shall  be 
well,  quite  well  presently." 

Ellinor  let  down  the  carriage  window  to  admit  the  air  ;  and 
she  took  the  occasion  to  tell  the  coachman  to  drive  faster. 
There  was  that  change  in  Madeline's  voice  which  alarmed  her. 

"  How  noble  was  his  look  !  you  saw  him  smile  !  "  continued 
Madeline,  talking  to  herself  :  "  And  they  will  murder  him  after 
all.  Let  me  see ;  this  day  week,  ay,  ere  this  day  week,  we 
shall  meet  again." 

"  Faster  ;  for  God's  sake,  Ellinor,  tell  them  to  drive  faster  !  " 
cried  Lester,  as  he  felt  the  form  that  leaned  on  his  bosom  wax 
heavier  and  heavier.  They  sped  on  ;  the  house  was  in  sight ; 
that  lonely  and  cheerless  house  ;  not  their  sweet  home  at 
Grassdale,  with  the  ivy  round  its  porch,  and  the  quiet  church 
behind !  The  sun  was  setting  slowly,  and  Ellinor  drew  the 
blind  to  shade  the  glare  from  her  sister's  eye. 

Madeline  felt  the  kindness,  and  smiled.  Ellinor  wiped  her 
eyes,  and  tried  to  smile  again.  The  carriage  stopped,  and 
Madeline  was  lifted  out ;  she  stood,  supported  by  her  father 
and  Ellinor,  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold.  She  looked  on 
the  golden  sun  and  the  gentle  earth,  and  the  little  motes 
dancing  in  the  western  ray  ;  all  was  steeped  in  quiet,  and  full 
of  the  peace  and  tranquillity  of  the  pastoral  life  !  "  No,  no," 
she  muttered,  grasping  her  father's  hand.  "  How  is  this?  this 
is  not  his  hand  !  Ah,  no,  no  ;  I  am  not  with  him  !  Father," 
she  added,  in  a  louder  and  deeper  voice,  rising  from  his  breast, 


348  EUGENE      ARAM. 

and  standing  alone  and  unaided, — "father,  bury  this  little 
packet  with  me,  they  are  his  letters  ;  do  not  break  the  seal, 
and — and  tell  him  that  I  never  felt  how  deeply  I — loved  him — • 
till  all — the  world — had — deserted  him  ! — " 

She  uttered  a  faint  cry  of  pain,  and  fell  at  once  to  the 
ground  ;  she  lived  a  few  hours  longer,  but  never  made  speech 
or  sign,  or  evinced  token  of  life  but  its  breath,  which  died  at 
last  gradually — imperceptibly — away. 

On  the  following  evening  Walter  obtained  entrance  to  Aram's 
cell  :  that  morning  the  prisoner  had  seen  Lester  ;  that  morning 
he  had  heard  of  Madeline's  death.  He  had  shed  no  tear  ;  he 
had,  in  the  affecting  language  of  Scripture,  "  turned  his  face 
to  the  wall ";  none  had  seen  his  emotions  ;  yet  Lester  felt  in 
that  bitter  interview  that  his  daughter  was  duly  mourned. 

Aram  did  not  lift  his  eyes  when  Walter  was  admitted,  and 
the  young  man  stood  almost  at  his  knee  before  he  perceived 
him.  Aram  then  looked  up,  and  they  gazed  on  each  other  for 
a  moment,  but  without  speaking,  till  Walter  said  in  a  hollow 
voice  : 

"  Eugene  Aram  !  " 

"Ay!" 

"  Madeline  Lester  is  no  more." 

"  I  have  heard  it !     I  am  reconciled.     Better  now  than  later." 

"  Aram  !"  said  Walter,  in  a  tone  trembling  with  emotion, 
and  passionately  clasping  his  hands,  "  I  entreat,  I  implore  you, 
at  this  awful  time,  if  it  be  within  your  power,  to  lift  from  my 
heart  a  load  that  weighs  it  to  the  dust,  that,  if  left  there,  will 
make  me  through  life  a  crushed  and  miserable  man  :  I  implore 
you,  in  the  name  of  common  humanity,  by  your  hopes  of 
heaven,  to  remove  it !  The  time  now  has  irrevocably  passed, 
when  your  denial  or  your  confession  could  alter  your  doom  ; 
your  days  are  numbered  ;  there  is  no  hope  of  reprieve  :  I 
implore  you,  then,  if  you  were  led — I  will  not  ask  how,  or 
wherefore — to  the  execution  of  the  crime  for  the  charge  of 
which  you  die,  to  say, — to  whisper  to  me  but  one  word  of  con- 
fession, and  I,  the  sole  child  of  the  murdered  man,  will  forgive 
you  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul." 

Walter  paused,  unable  to  proceed. 

Aram's  brow  worked  ;  he  turned  aside  ;  he  made  no  answer  ; 
his  head  dropped  on  his  bosom,  and  his  eyes  were  unmovedly 
fixed  on  the  earth. 

"  Reflect,"  continued  Walter,  recovering  himself, — "  reflect ! 
I  have  been  the  involuntary  instrument  in  bringing  you  to  this 
awful  fate, — in  destroying  the  happiness  of  my  own  house,— 


EUGENE     ARAM.  349 

in — in — in  breaking  the  heart  of  the  woman  whom  I  adored 
even  as  a  boy.  If  you  be  innocent,  what  a  dreadful  remem- 
brance is  left  to  me  !  Be  merciful,  Aram  !  be  merciful :  and 
if  this  deed  was  done  by  your  hand,  say  to  me  but  one  word 
to  remove  the  terrible  uncertainty  that  now  harrows  up  my 
being.  What  now  is  earth,  is  man,  is  opinion,  to  you  ?  God 
only  now  can  judge  you.  The  eye  of  God  reads  your  heart 
while  I  speak  ;  and,  in  the  awful  hour  when  eternity  opens  to 
you,  if  the  guilt  has  been  indeed  committed,  think, — oh,  think 
how  much  lighter  will  be  your  offence  if,  by  vanquishing  the 
stubborn  heart,  you  can  relieve  a  human  being  from  a  doubt 
that  otherwise  will  make  the  curse — the  horror  of  an  existence. 
Aram,  Aram,  if  the  father's  death  came  from  you,  shall  the 
life  of  the  son  be  made  a  burthen  to  him  through  you  also  ? " 

"  What  would  you  have  of  me  ?  speak  ! "  said  Aram,  but 
without  lifting  his  face  from  his  breast. 

"  Much  of  your  nature  belies  this  crime.  You  are  wise, 
calm,  beneficent  to  the  distressed.  Revenge,  passion, — nay, 
the  sharp  pangs  of  hunger,  may  have  urged  you  to  one  criminal 
deed  :  but  your  soul  is  not  wholly  hardened  :  nay,  I  think  I 
can  so  far  trust  you,  that  if  at  this  dread  moment — the  clay  of 
Madeline  Lester  scarce  yet  cold,  woe  busy  and  softening  at 
your  breast,  and  the  son  of  the  murdered  dead  before  you  ; 
if  at  this  moment  you  can  lay  your  hand  on  your  heart,  and 
say,  '  Before  God,  and  at  peril  of  my  soul,  I  am  innocent  of 
this  deed,'  I  will  depart, — I  will  believe  you,  and  bear,  as  bear 
I  may,  the  reflection,  that  I  have  been  one  of  the  unconscious 
agents  in  condemning  to  a  fearful  death  an  innocent  man  !  If 
innocent  in  this — how  good,  how  perfect,  in  all  else  !  But,  if 
you  cannot  at  so  dark  a  crisis  take  that  oath, — then  !  oh  then  ! 
be  just — be  generous,  even  in  guilt,  and  let  me  not  be  haunted 
throughout  life  by  the  spectre  of  a  ghastly  and  restless  doubt  ! 
Speak  !  oh,  speak  !  " 

Well,  well  may  we  judge  how  crushing  must  have  been  that 
doubt  in  the  breast  of  one  naturally  bold  and  fiery,  when  it 
thus  humbled  the  very  son  of  the  murdered  man  to  forget 
wrath  and  vengeance,  and  descend  to  prayer!  But  Walter  had 
heard  the  defence  of  Aram  ;  he  had  marked  his  mien  ;  not 
once  in  that  trial  had  he  taken  his  eyes  from  the  prisoner,  and 
he  had  felt,  like  a  bolt  of  ice  through  his  heart,  that  the 
sentence  passed  on  the  accused,  his  judgment  could  not  have 
passed  !  How  dreadful  must,  then,  have  been  the  state  of  his 
mind  when,  repairing  to  Lester's  house,  he  found  it  the  house 
of  death — the  pure,  the  beautiful  spirit  gone — the  father 


350  EUGENE     ARAM. 

mourning  for  his  child,  and  not  to  be  comforted — and  Ellinor? 
No  !  scenes  like  these,  thoughts  like  these,  pluck  the  pride 
from  a  man's  heart ! 

"  Walter  Lester  !  "  said  Aram,  after  a  pause  ;  but  raising  his 
head  with  dignity,  though  on  the  features  there  was  but  one 
expression — woe,  unutterable  woe;  "Walter  Lester,  I  had 
thought  to  quit  life  with  my  tale  untold  ;  but  you  have  not  ap- 
pealed to  me  in  vain  !  I  tear  the  self  from  my  heart  !  I  re- 
nounce the  last  haughty  dream  in  which  I  wrapt  myself  from 
the  ills  around  me.  You  shall  learn  all  and  judge  accordingly. 
But  to  your  ear  the  tale  can  scarce  be  told  :  the  son  cannot 
hear  in  silence  that  which,  unless  I  too  unjustly,  too  wholly 
condemn  myself,  I  must  say  of  the  dead !  But  time,"  con- 
tinued Aram  mutteringly,  and  with  his  eyes  on  vacancy,  "time 
does  not  press  too  fast.  Better  let  the  hand  speak  than  the 
tongue  :  yes  ;  the  day  of  execution  is — ay,  ay — two  days  yet 
to  it — to-morrow  ?  no  !  Young  man,"  he  said  abruptly,  turn- 
ing to  Walter,  "  on  the  day  after  to-morrow,  about  seven  in  the 
evening — the  eve  before  that  morn  fated  to  be  my  last — come 
to  me.  At  that  time  I  will  place  in  your  hands  a  paper  con- 
taining the  whole  history  that  connects  myself  with  your  father. 
On  the  word  of  a  man  on  the  brink  of  another  world,  no  truth 
that  imports  your  interest  therein  shall  be  omitted.  But  read 
it  not  till  I  am  no  more  ;  and  when  read,  confide  the  tale  to 
none  till  Lester's  gray  hairs  have  gone  to  the  grave.  This 
swear  !  'tis  an  oath  difficult  perhaps  to  keep,  but — ' 

"  As  my  Redeemer  lives,  I  will  swear  to  both  conditions  ! " 
cried  Walter,  with  a  solemn  fervor.  "  But  tell  me  now,  at 
least—" 

"Ask  me  no  more  !  "  interrupted  Aram,  in  his  turn.  "  The 
time  is  near  when  you  will  know  all !  Tarry  that  time,  and 
leave  me  !  Yes,  leave  me  now — at  once — leave  me  /  " 

To  dwell  lingeringly  over  those  passages  which  excite  pain 
without  satisfying  curiosity  is  scarcely  the  duty  of  the  drama, 
or  of  that  province  even  nobler  than  the  drama  ;  for  it  requires 
minuter  care — indulges  in  more  complete  description — yields 
to  more  elaborate  investigation  of  motives — commands  a 
greater  variety  of  chords  in  the  human  heart — to  which,  with 
poor  and  feeble  power  for  so  high,  yet  so  ill-appreciated  a  task 
we  now,  not  irreverently  if  rashly,  aspire  ! 

We  glance  not  around  us  at  the  chamber  of  death — at  the 
broken  heart  of  Lester — at  the  twofold  agony  of  his  surviving 
child— the  agony  which  mourns  and  yet  seeks  to  console 
another — the  mixed  emotions  of  Walter,  in  which  an  unsleeping 


EUGENE      ARAM.  351 

eagerness  to  learn  the  fearful  all  formed  the  main  part — the 
solitary  cell  and  solitary  heart  of  the  convicted — we  glance  not 
at  these  ;  we  pass  at  once  to  the  evening  in  which  Aram 
again  saw  Walter  Lester,  and  for  the  last  time. 

"  You  are  come,  punctual  to  the  hour,"  said  he,  in  a  low, 
clear  voice  :  "  I  have  not  forgotten  my  word  ;  the  fulfilment 
of  that  promise  has  been  a  victory  over  myself  which  no  man 
can  appreciate  :  but  I  owed  it  to  you.  I  have  discharged  the 
debt.  Enough  !  I  have  done  more  than  I  at  first  purposed. 
I  have  extended  my  narration,  but  superficially  in  some  parts, 
over  my  life  ;  that  rolixity,  perhaps,  I  owed  to  myself.  Re- 
member your  promise  :  this  seal  is  not  broken  till  the  pulse  is 
stilled  in  the  hand  which  now  gives  you  these  papers  !  " 

Walter  renewed  his  oath,  and  Aram,  pausing  for  a  moment, 
continued  in  an  altered  and  softening  voice  : 

"Be  kind  to  Lester  :  soothe,  console  him;  never  by  a  hint 
let  him  think  otherwise  of  me  than  he  does.  For  his  sake  more 
than  mine  I  ask  this.  Venerable,  kind  old  man  !  the  warmth 
cf  human  affection  has  rarely  glowed  for  me.  To  the  few  who 
loved  me,  how  deeply  I  have  repaid  the  love  !  But  these  are 
not  words  to  pass  between  you  and  me.  Farewell  !  Yet,  be- 
fore we  part,  say  this  much  :  whatever  I  have  revealed  in  this 
confession — whatever  has  been  my  wrong  to  you,  or  whatever 
(a  less  offence)  the  language  I  have  now,  justifying  myself,  used 
to — to  your  father — say,  that  you  grant  me  that  pardon  which 
one  man  may  grant  another." 

"  Fully,  cordially,"  said  Walter. 

<4  In  the  day  that  for  you  brings  the  death  that  to-morrow 
awaits  me,"  said  Aram  in  a  deep  tone,  "  be  that  forgiveness 
accorded  to  yourself  !  Farewell.  In  that  untried  variety  of 
being  which  spreads  beyond  us,  who  knows  but,  that  in  our 
several  progress  from  grade  to  grade,  and  world  to  world,  our 
souls,  though  in  far  distant  ages,  may  meet  again  ! — one  dim 
and  shadowy  memory  of  this  hour  the  link  between  us  :  fare- 
well— farewell  !  " 

For  the  reader's  interest  we  think  it  be'tter  (and  certainly  it 
is  more  immediately  in  the  due  course  of  narrative,  if  not  of 
actual  events)  to  lay  at  once  before  him  the  confession  that 
Aram  placed  in  Walter's  hands,  without  waiting  till  that  time 
when  Walter  himself  broke  the  zeal  of  a  confession, — not  of 
deeds  alone,  but  of  thoughts  how  wild  and  entangled — of  feel- 
ings how  strange  and  dark — of  a  starred  soul  that  had  wandered 
from  how  proud  an  orbit,  to  what  perturbed  and  unholy  regions 
of  night  and  chaos  !  For  me,  I  have  not  sought  to  derive  the 


352  EUGENE      ARAM. 

reader's  interest  from  the  vulgar  sources  that  such  a  tale  might 
have  afforded;  I  have  suffered  him,  almost  from  the  beginning, 
to  pierce  into  Aram's  secret  ;  and  I  have  prepared  him  for  that 
guilt,  with  which  other  narrators  of  this  story  might  have  only 
sought  to  surprise. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   CONFESSION  ;    AND    THE   FATE. 

"  In  winter's  tedious  nights,  sit  by  the  fire 
With  good  old  folks,  and  let  them  tell  thee  tales 
Of  woeful  ages  long  ago  betid  : 
And  ere  thou  bid  good-night,  to  quit  their  grief, 
Tell  them  the  lamentable  fall  of  me." — Richard  II. 

"  I  WAS  born  at  Ramsgill,  a  little  village  in  Netherdale.  My 
family  had  originally  been  of  some  rank  ;  they  were  formerly 
lords  of  the  town  of  Aram,  on  the  southern  banks  of  the  Tees. 
But  time  had  humbled  these  pretensions-  to  consideration  ; 
though  they  were  still  fondly  cherished  by  the  inheritors  of  an 
ancient  name,  and  idle  but  haughty  recollections.  My  father 
resided  on  a  small  farm,  and  was  especially  skilful  in  horticul- 
ture, a  taste  I  derived  from  him.  When  I  was  about  thirteen, 
the  deep  and  intense  passion  that  has  made  the  demon  of  my 
life  first  stirred  palpably  within  me.  I  had  always  been,  from  my 
cradle,  of  a  solitary  disposition,  and  inclined  torevery  and  mus- 
ing ;  these  traits  of  character  heralded  the  love  that  now 
seized  me — the  love  of  knowledge.  Opportunity  or  accident 
first  directed  my  attention  to  the  abstruser  sciences.  I  pored 
my  soul  over  that  noble  study,  which  is  the  best  foundation  of 
all  true  discovery  ;  and  the  success  I  met  with  soon  turned  my 
pursuits  into  more  alluring  channels.  History,  poetry, — the 
mastery  of  the  past,  and  the  spell  that  admits  us  into  the  vis- 
ionary world,  took  the  place  which  lines  and  numbers  had  done 
before.  I  became  gradually  more  and  more  rapt  and  solitary 
in  my  habits  ;  knowledge  assumed  a  yet  more  lovely  and  be- 
witching character,  and  every  day  the  passion  to  attain  it  in- 
creased upon  me  ;  I  do  not — I  have  not  now  the  heart  to  do 
it — enlarge  upon  what  I  acquired  without  assistance,  and  with 
labor  sweet  in  proportion  to  its  intensity.*  The  world,  the 

*  We  learn  from  a  letter  of  Eugene  Aram's,  now  extant,  that  his  method  of  acquiring 
the  learned  languages  was  to  linger  over  five  lines  at  a  time,  and  never  to  quit  a  passage 
till  he  thought  ne  had  comprehended  its  meaning. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  353 

creation,  all  things  that  lived,  moved,  and  were,  became  to  me 
objects  contributing  to  one  passionate,  and,  I  fancied,  one  ex- 
alted end.  I  suffered  the  lowlier  pleasures  of  life,  and  the 
charms  of  its  more  common  ties,  to  glide  away  from  me  un- 
tasted  and  unfelt.  As  you  read,  in  the  East,  of  men  remaining 
motionless  for  days  together,  with  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
heavens,  my  mind,  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  things 
above  its  reach,  had  no  sight  of  what  passed  around.  My  pa- 
rents died,  and  I  was  an  orphan.  I  had  no  home  and  no  wealth  ; 
but  wherever  the  field  contained  a  flower,  or  the  heavens  a  star, 
there  was  matter  of  thought,  and  food  for  delight,  to  me.  I 
wandered  alone  for  months  together,  seldom  sleeping  but  in 
the  open  air,  and  shunning  the  human  form  as  that  part  of 
God's  works  from  which  I  could  learn  the  least.  I  came  to 
Knaresbro'  :  the  beauty  of  the  country,  a  facility  in  acquiring 
books  from  a  neighboring  library  that  was  open  to  me,  made 
me  resolve  to  settle  there.  And  now,  new  desires  opened  upon 
me  with  new  stores  :  I  became  haunted  with  the  ambition  to 
enlighten  and  instruct  my  race.  At  first,  I  had  loved  knowl- 
edge solely  for  itself  :  I  now  saw  afar  an  object  grander  than 
knowledge.  To  what  end,  said  I,  are  these  labors  ?  Why  do 
I  feed  a  lamp  which  consumes  itself  in  a  desert  place  ?  Why 
do  I  heap  up  riches,  without  asking  who  shall  gather  them  ? 
I  was  restless  and  discontented.  What  could  I  do?  I  was 
friendless  ;  I  was  strange  to  my  kind ;  I  saw  my  desires 
checked  when  their  aim  was  at  the  highest ;  all  that  was  aspir- 
ing in  my  hopes,  and  ardent  in  my  nature,  was  cramped  and 
chilled.  I  exhausted  the  learning  within  my  reach.  Where, 
with  my  appetite  excited,  not  slaked,  was  I,  destitute  and  pen- 
niless, to  search  for  more  ?  My  abilities,  by  bowing  them  to 
the  lowliest  tasks,  but  kept  me  from  famine  was  this  to  be  my 
lot  forever  ?  And  all  the  while  I  was  thus  grinding  down  my 
soul  in  order  to  satisfy  the  vile  physical  wants,  what  golden 
hours,  what  glorious  advantages,  what  openings  into  new 
heavens  of  science,  what  chances  of  illuminating  mankind  were 
forever  lost  to  me  !  Sometimes,  when  the  young,  to  whom  I 
taught  some  homely  elements  of  knowledge,  came  around  me  ; 
when  they  looked  me  in  the  face  with  their  laughing  eyes ; 
when,  for  they  all  loved  me,  they  told  me  their  little  pleasures 
and  their  petty  sorrows,  I  have  wished  that  I  could  have  gone 
back  again  into  childhood,  and,  becoming  as  one  of  them, 
enter  into  that  heaven  of  quiet  which  was  denied  me  now.  Yet 
it  was  more  often  with  an  indignant  than  a  sorrowful  spirit  that 
1  looked  upon  my  lot.  For,  there  lay  my  life  imprisoned  in 


354  EUGENE      ARAM. 

penury  as  in  the  walls  of  a  gaol  ;  Heaven  smiled  and  earth 
blossomed  around,  but  how  scale  the  stern  barriers? — how- 
steal  through  the  inexorable  gate?  True,  that  by  bodily  labor 
I  could  give  food  to  the  body — to  starve  by  such  labor  the 
craving  wants  of  the  mind.  Beg  I  could  not.  When  ever 
lived  the  real  student,  the  true  minister  and  priest  of  Knowl- 
edge, who  was  not  filled  with  the  lofty  sense  of  the  dignity  of 
his  calling  ?  Was  I  to  show  the  sores  of  my  pride,  and  strip 
my  heart  from  its  clothing,  and  ask  the  dull  fools  of  wealth 
not  to  let  a  scholar  starve  ?  No  ! — -he  whom  the  vilest  poverty 
ever  stooped  to  this,  may  be  the  quack,  but  never  the  true  dis- 
ciple, of  Learning.  What  did  I  then  ?  I  devoted  the  mean- 
est part  of  my  knowledge  to  the  procuring  the  bare  means  of 
life,  and  the  knowledge  that  pierced  to  the  depths  of  earth, 
and  numbered  the  stars  of  heaven — why,  that  was  valueless 
in  the  market ! 

"  In  Knaresbro',  at  this  time,  I  met  a  distant  relation,  Rich- 
ard Houseman.  Sometimes  in  our  walks  we  encountered  each 
other ;  for  he  sought  me,  and  I  could  not  always  avoid  him. 
He  was  a  man  like  myself,  born  to  poverty,  yet  he  had  always  en- 
joyed what  to  him  was  wealth.  This  seemed  a  mystery  to  me  ; 
and  when  we  met,  we  sometimes  conversed  upon  it.  '  You  are 
poor,  with  all  your  wisdom,'  said  he.  '  I  know  nothing  ;  but 
I  am  never  poor.  Why  is  this  ?  The  world  is  my  treasury.  I 
live  upon  my  kind.  Society  is  my  foe.  Laws  order  me  to 
starve  ;  but  self-preservation  is  an  instinct  more  sacred  than 
society,  and  more  imperious  than  laws.' 

"  The  audacity  of  his  discourse  revolted  me.  At  first  I 
turned  away  in  disgust ;  then  I  stood  and  heard — to  ponder 
and  inquire.  Nothing  so  tasks  the  man  of  books  as  his  first 
blundering  guess  at  the  problems  of  a  guilty  heart !  House- 
man had  been  a  soldier ;  he  had  seen  the  greatest  part  of 
Europe  ;  he  possessed  a  strong,  shrewd  sense  ;  he  was  a  vil- 
lain,— but  a  villain  bold,  adroit,  and  not  then  thoroughly  un- 
redeemed. Trouble  seized  me  as  I  heard  him,  and  the  shadow 
of  his  life  stretched  farther  and  darker  over  the  wilderness  of 
mine.  When  Houseman  asked  me,  'What  law  befriended  the 
man  without  money  ? — to  what  end  I  had  cultivated  my 
mind? — or  what  good  the  voice  of  knowledge  could  effect  while 
Poverty  forbade  it  to  be  heard?'  the  answer  died  upon  my 
lips.  Then  I  sought  to  escape  from  these  terrible  doubts.  I 
plunged  again  into  my  books.  I  called  upon  my  intellect  to 
defend, — and  my  intellect  betrayed  me.  For  suddenly  as  I 
pored  over  my  scanty  books,  a  gigantic  discovery  in  science 


EUGENE     ARAM.  355 

gleamed  across  me.  I  saw  the  means  of  effecting  a  vast  bene- 
fit to  truth  and  to  man — of  adding  a  new  conquest  to  that  only 
empire  which  no  fate  can  overthrow,  and  no  time  wear  away. 
And  in  this  discovery  I  was  stopped  by  the  total  inadequacy  of 
my  means.  The  books  and  implements  I  required  were  not 
within  my  reach  ;  a  handful  of  gold  would  buy  them  ;  I  had 
not  wherewithal  to  buy  bread  for  the  morrow's  meal !  In  my 
solitude  and  misery  this  discovery  haunted  me  like  a  visible 
form  ;  it  smiled  upon  me — a  fiend  that  took  the  aspect  of 
beauty  ;  it  wooed  me  to  its  charms  that  it  might  lure  my  soul 
into  its  fangs.  I  heard  it  murmur,  'One  bold  deed  and  I  am 
thine  !  Wilt  thou  lie  down  in  the  ditch  and  die  the  dog's  death, 
or  hazard  thy  life  for  the  means  that  may  serve  and  illumine 
the  world  ?  Shrinkest  thou  from  men's  laws,  though  the  laws 
bid  thee  rot  on  their  outskirts  ?  Is  it  not  for  the  service  of  man 
that  thou  shouldst  for  once  break  the  law  on  behalf  of  that 
knowledge  from  which  all  laws  take  their  source?  If  thou 
wrongest  the  one,  thou  shalt  repay  it  in  boons  to  the  million. 
For  the  ill  of  an  hour  thou  shalt  give  a  blessing  to  ages  !  So 
spoke  to  me  the  tempter.  And  one  day,  when  the  tempter 
spoke  loudest,  Houseman  met  me,  accompanied  by  a  stranger 
who  had  just  visited  our  town,  for  what  purpose  you  know  al- 
ready. His  name — supposed  name — was  Clarke.  Man,  I  am 
about  to  speak  plainly  of  that  stranger — his  character  and  his 
fate.  And  yet — yet  you  are  his  son  !  I  would  fain  soften  the 
coloring ;  but  I  speak  truth  of.  myself,  and  I  must  not,  unless 
I  would  blacken  my  name  yet  deeper  than  it  deserves,  varnish 
truth  when  I  speak  of  others.  Houseman  joined,  and  presented 
to  me  this  person.  From  the  first  I  felt  a  dislike  of  the 
stranger,  which  indeed  it  was  easy  to  account  for.  He  was  of 
a  careless  and  somewhat  insolent  manner.  His  countenance 
was  impressed  with  the  lines  and  character  of  a  thousand  vices  ; 
you  read  in  the  brow  and  eye  the  history  of  a  sordid  yet  reck- 
less life.  His  conversation  was  repellent  to  me  beyond  ex- 
pression. He  uttered  the  meanest  sentiments,  and  he  chuckled 
over  them  as  the  maxims  of  a  superior  sagacity  ;  he  avowed 
himself  a  knave  upon  system,  and  upon  the  lowest  scale.  To 
over-reach,  to  deceive,  to  elude,  to  shuffle,  to  fawn,  and  to  lie, 
were  the  arts  to  which  he  confessed  with  so  naked  and  cold  a 
grossness  that  one  perceived  that  in  the  long  habits  of  debase- 
ment he  was  unconscious  of  what  was  not  debased.  Houseman 
seemed  to  draw  him  out  :  Clarke  told  us  anecdotes  of  his  ras- 
cality, and  the  distresses  to  which  it  had  brought  him  :  and  he 
finished  by  saying:  'Yet  you  see  me  now  almost  rich,  and 


356  EUGENE     ARAM. 

wholly  contented.  I  have  always  been  the  luckiest  of 
beings :  no  matter  what  ill  chances  to-day,  good  turns 
up  to-morrow.  I  confess  that  I  bring  on  myself  the 
ill,  and  Providence  sends  me  the  good.'  We  met  ac- 
cidentally more  than  once,  and  his  conversation  was 
always  of  the  same  strain — his  luck  and  his  rascality  :  he  had 
no  other  theme,  and  no  other  boast.  And  did  not  this  aid  the 
voice  of  the  tempter  ?  Was  it  not  an  ordination  that  called 
upon  men  to  take  Fortune  in  their  own  hands,  when  Fate 
lavished  her  rewards  on  this  low  and  creeping  thing,  that  could 
only  enter  even  Vice  by  its  sewers  and  alleys  ?  Was  it  worth 
while  to  be  virtuous,  and  look  on,  while  the  bad  seized  upon 
the  feast  of  life?  This  man  was  but  moved  by  the  basest 
passions,  the  pettiest  desires :  he  gratified  them,  and  Fate 
smiled  upon  his  daring.  I,  who  had  shut  out  from  my  heart 
the  poor  temptations  of  sense — I,  who  fed  only  the  most  glo- 
rious visions,  the  most  august  desires — I,  denied  myself  their 
fruition,  trembling  and  spell-bound  in  the  cerements  of  human 
laws,  without  hope,  without  reward — losing  the  very  powers  of 
virtue  because  I  would  not  stray  into  crime  ! 

"  These  thoughts  fell  on  me  darkly  and  rapidly  ;  but  they 
led  as  yet  to  no  result.  I  saw  nothing  beyond  them.  I  suf- 
fered my  indignation  to  gnaw  my  heart ;  and  preserved  the 
same  calm  and  serene  demeanor  which  had  grown  with  my 
growth  of  mind.  Strange  that  while  I  upbraided  Fate, 
I  did  not  cease  to  love  mankind.  I  coveted — what  ? 
the  power  to  serve  them.  I  had  been  kind  and  loving 
to  all  things  from  a  boy  ;  there  was  not  a  dumb  animal  that 
would  not  single  me  from  a  crowd  as  its  protector,*  and  yet  I 
was  doomed — but  I  must  not  forestall  the  dread  catastrophe  of 
my  life.  In  returning  at  night  to  my  own  home,  from  my 
long  and  solitary  walks,  I  often  passed  the  house  in  whicn 
Clarke  lodged  ;  and  sometimes  I  met  him  reeling  by  the  door, 
insulting  all  who  passed  ;  and  yet  their  resentment  was  absorbed 
in  their  disgust.  '  And  this  loathsome  and  grovelling  thing,'  said 
I  inly, '  squanders  on  low  excesses,  wastes  upon  outrages  to 
society,  that  with  which  I  could  make  my  soul  as  a  burning 
lamp,  that  should  shed  a  light  over  the  world  !  ' 

"  There  was  that  in  the  man's  vices  which  revolted  me  far 

*  All  the  authentic  anecdotes  of  Aram  corroborate  the  fact  of  his  natural  gentleness  to 
all  things.  A  clergyman  (the  Rev.  Mr.  Hinton)  said  that  he  used  frequently  to  observe 
Aram,  when  walking  in  the  garden,  stoop  down  to  remove  a  snail  or  worm  from  the  path,  to 
prevent  its  being  destroyed.  Mr.  Hinton  ingeniously  conjectured  that  Aram  wished  to 
atone  for  his  crime  by  showing  mercy  to  every  animal  and  insect  ;  but  the  fact  is,  that  there 
are  several  anecdotes  to  show  that  he  was  equally  humane  before  the  crime  was  committed. 
Such  are  the  strange  contradictions  of  the  human  heart. 


EUGENE     ARAM.  357 

more  than  the  villany  of  Houseman.  The  latter  had  possessed 
few  advantages  of  education  ;  he  descended  to  no  minutiae  of 
sin;  he  was  a  plain,  blunt,  coarse  wretch,  and  his  sense  threw 
somethingjespectable  around  hisvices.  But  in  Clarke  you  saw 
the  traces  of  happier  opportunities  ;  of  better  education  ;  it 
was  in  him  not  the  coarseness  of  manner  that  displeased,  it  was 
the  lowness  of  sentiment  that  sickened  me.  Had  Houseman 
money  in  his  purse,  he  would  have  paid  a  debt  and  relieved  a 
friend  from  mere  indifference  ;  not  so  the  other.  Had  Clarke 
been  overflowing  with  wealth,  he  would  have  slipped  from  a 
creditor  and  duped  a  friend  ;  there  was  a  pitiful  cunning  in  his 
nature,  which  made  him  regard  the  lowest  meanness  as  the 
subtlest  wit.  His  mind,  too,  was  not  only  degraded,  but  bro- 
ken by  his  habits  of  life  ;  he  had  the  laugh  of  the  idiot  at  his 
own  debasement.  Houseman  was  young  ;  he  might  amend  ; 
but  Clarke  had  gray  hairs  and  dim  eyes  ;  was  old  in  constitu- 
tion, if  not  years  ;  and  everything  in  him  was  hopeless  and 
confirmed  ;  the  leprosy  was  in  the  system.  Time,  in  this,  has 
made  Houseman  what  Clarke  was  then. 

"One  day,  in  passing  through  the  street,  though  it  was  broad 
noon,  I  encountered  Clarke  in  a  state  of  intoxication,  and  talk- 
ing to  a  crowd  he  had  collected  about  him.  I  sought  to  pass 
in  an  opposite  direction  ;  he  would  not  suffer  me  ;  he,  whom  I 
sickened  to  touch,  to  see,  threw  himself  in  my  way,  and  affected 
gibe  and  insult,  nay,  even  threat.  But  when  he  came  near,  he 
shrank  before  the  mere  glance  of  my  eye,  and  I  passed  on,  un- 
heeding him.  The  insult  galled  me  ;  he  had  taunted  my  pov- 
erty— poverty  was  a  favorite  jest  with  him  ;  it  galled  me  :  an- 
ger ?  revenge  ?  no  !  those  passions  I  had  never  felt  for  any  man. 
I  could  not  rouse  them  for  the  first  time  at  such  a  cause  ;  yet 
I  was  lowered  in  my  own  eyes,  I  was  stung.  Poverty  !  he  taunt 
me  !  I  wandered  from  the  town,  and  paused  by  the  winding 
and  shagged  banks  of  the  river.  It  was  a  gloomy  winter's  day, 
the  waters  rolled  on  black  and  sullen,  and  the  dry  leaves  rustled 
desolately  beneath  my  feet.  Who  shall  tell  us  that  outward  na- 
ture has  no  effect  upon  our  mood  ?  All  around  seemed  to  frown 
upon  my  lot.  I  read  in  the  face  of  heaven  and  earth  a  confir- 
mation of  the  curse  which  man  hath  set  upon  poverty.  I  leaned 
against  a  tree  that  overhung  the  waters,  and  suffered  my  thoughts 
to  glide  on  in  the  bitter  silence  of  their  course.  I  heard  my 
name  uttered — I  felt  a  hand  on  my  arm,  I  turned,  and  House- 
man was  by  my  side. 

'  What !   moralizing  ?'  said  he,  with  his  rude  smile. 

"  I  did  not  answer  him. 


358  KV0ENE     ARAM. 

"  '  Look,'  said  he,  pointing  to  the  waters,  '  where  yonder  fish 
lies  waiting  his  prey, — that  prey  his  kind.  Come,  you  have 
read  Nature,  is  it  not  so  universally  ? ' 

"  Still  I  did  not  answer  him. 

"  '  They  who  do  not  as  the  rest,'  he  renewed,  '  fulfil  not  the 
object  of  their  existence  ;  they  seek  to  be  wiser  than  their  tribe, 
and  are  fools  for  their  pains.  Is  it  not  so  ?  I  am  a  plain  man 
and  would  learn.' 

"  Still  I  did  not  answer. 

"  '  You  are  silent,'  said  he  :  '  do  I  offend  you  ?  ' 
"No!' 

' '  Now,  then,'  he  continued,  '  strange  as  it  may  seem,  we,  so 
different  in  mind,  are  at  this  moment  alike  in  fortunes.  I  have 
not  a  guinea  in  the  wide  world  ;  you,  perhaps,  are  equally  des^ 
titute.  But  mark  the  difference.  I,  the  ignorant  man,  ere 
three  days  have  passed,  will  have  filled  my  purse  ;  you,  the 
wise  man,  will  be  still  as  poor.  Come,  cast  away  your  wisdom, 
and  do  as  I  do.' 

"'How?' 

'  Take  from  the  superfluities  of  others  what  your  necessities 
carve.  My  horse,  my  pistol,  a  ready  hand,  a  stout  heart,  these 
are  to  me  what  coffers  are  to  others.  There  is  the  chance  of 
detection  and  of  death  ;  I  allow  it;  but  is  not  this  chance 
better  than  some  certainties?' 

"  The  tempter  with  the  glorious  face  and  the  demon  fangs 
rose  again  before  me — and  spoke  in  the  Robber's  voice. 

"  'Will  you  share  the  danger  and  the  booty?'  renewed  House- 
man in  a  low  voice. 

' '  Speak  out,'  said  I ;  'explain  your  purpose  ! ' 

"  Houseman's  looks  brightened. 

'"Listen  !  '  said  he  ;  'Clarke,  despite  his  present  wealth  law- 
fully gained,  is  about  to  purloin  more  ;  he  has  converted  his 
legacy  into  jewels;  he  has  borrowed  other  jewels  on  false  pre- 
tences ;  he  intends  to  make  these  also  his  own,  and  to  leave 
the  town  in  the  dead  of  night  ;  he  has  confided  to  me  his  pur- 
pose, and  asked  my  aid.  He  and  I,  be  it  known  to  you,  were 
friends  of  old  ;  we  have  shared  together  other  dangers  and 
other  spoils.  Now  do  you  guess  my  meaning  ?  Let  us  ease 
him  of  his  burden  !  I  offer  to  you  the  half  ;  share  the  enter- 
prise and  its  fruits.' 

"  I  rose,  I  walked  away,  I  pressed  my  hands  on  my  heart. 
Houseman  saw  the  conflict ;  he  followed  me  ;  he  named  the 
value  of  the  prize  he  proposed  to  gain  ;  that  which  he  called 
my  share  placed  all  my  wishes  within  my  reach  !  Leisure, 


KUCtHE     ARAM.  359 

independence, — knowledge.  The  sublime  discovery — the  pos- 
session of  the  glorious  Fiend.  All,  all  within  my  grasp- — and  by 
a  single  deed — no  frauds  oft  repeated — no  sinslongcontinued — 
a  single  deed  !  I  breathed  heavily — but  the  weight  still  lay 
upon  my  heart.  I  shut  my  eyes  and  shuddered — the  mortal 
shuddered,  but  still  the  demon  smiled. 

"  '  Give  me  your  hand,'  said  Houseman. 

" '  No,  no,'  I  said,  breaking  away  from  him.  '  I  must  pause — 
I  must  consider — I  do  not  yet  refuse,  but  I  will  not  now  decide.' 

"  Houseman  pressed,  but  I  persevered  in  my  determination  ; 
he  would  have  threatened  me,  but  my  nature  was  haughtier 
than  his,  and  I  subdued  him.  It  was  agreed  that  he  should  seek 
me  that  night  and  learn  my  choice  ;  the  next  night  was  the  one 
on  which  the  robbery  was  to  be  committed.  We  parted  ;  I  re- 
turned an  altered  man  to  my  home.  Fate  had  woven  her  mesh 
around  me  ;  a  new  incident  had  occurred  which  strengthened 
the  web  :  there  was  a  poor  girl  whom  I  had  been  accustomed 
to  see  in  my  walks.  She  supported  her  family  by  her  dexterity 
in  making  lace, — a  quiet,  patient-looking,  gentle  creature. 
Clarke  had,  a  few  days  since,  under  pretence  of  purchasing  lace, 
decoyed  her  to  his  house  (when  all  but  himself  were  from 
home),  where  he  used  the  most  brutal  violence  towards  her. 
The  extreme  poverty  of  the  parents  had  enabled  him  easily  to 
persuade  them  to  hush  up  the  matter,  but  something  of  the 
story  got  abroad  ;  the  poor  girl  was  marked  out  for  that  gossip 
and  scandal  which  among  the  very  lowest  classes  are  as  coarse 
in  the  expression  as  malignant  in  the  sentiment ;  and  in  the 
paroxysm  of  shame  and  despair,  the  unfortunate  girl  had  that 
day  destroyed  herself.  This  melancholy  event  wrung  forth 
from  the  parents  the  real  story  :  the  event  and  the  story  reached 
my  ears  in  the  very  hour  in  which  my  mind  was  wavering  to 
and  fro.  *  And  it  is  to  such  uses,'  said  the  Tempter,  '  that  this 
man  puts  his  gold  ! ' 

"  Houseman  came,  punctual  to  our  dark  appointment.  I 
gave  him  my  hand  in  silence.  The  tragic  end  of  his  victim, 
and  the  indignation  it  caused,  made  Clarke  yet  more  eager  to 
leave  the  town.  He  had  settled  with  Houseman  that  he  would 
abscond  that  very  night,  not  wait  for  the  next,  as  at  first  he  had 
intended.  His  jewels  and  property  were  put  in  a  small  com- 
pass. He  had  arranged  that  he  would,  towards  midnight  or 
later,  quit  his  lodging  ;  and  about  a  mile  from  the  town,  House- 
man had  engaged  to  have  a  chaise  in  readiness.  For  this  ser- 
vice Clarke  had  promised  Houseman  a  reward,  with  which  the 
latter  appeared  contented.  It  was  agreed  that  I  should  meet 


360  EUGENE     ARAM. 

Houseman  and  Clarke  at  a  certain  spot  in  their  way  from  the 
town.  Houseman  appeared  at  first  fearful,  lest  1  should  relent 
and  waver  in  my  purpose.  It  is  never  so  with  men  whose 
thoughts  are  deep  and  strong.  To  resolve  was  the  arduous 
step — once  resolved,  and  I  cast  not  a  look  behind.  Houseman 
left  me  for  the  present.  I  could  not  rest  in  my  chamber.  I 
went  forth  and  walked  about  the  town  :  the  night  deepened — 
I  saw  the  lights  in  each  house  withdrawn,  one  by  one,  and  at 
length  all  was  hushed  :  Silence  and  Sleep  kept  court  over  the 
abodes  of  men.  Nature  never  seemed  to  me  to  make  so  dread 
a  pause. 

"The  moon  came  out,  but  with  a  pale  and  sickly  counte- 
nance. It  was  winter  ;  the  snow,  which  had  been  falling  towards 
eve,  lay  deep  upon  the  ground  ;  and  the  frost  seemed  to  lock 
the  universal  nature  into  the  same  dread  tranquillity  which  had 
taken  possession  of  my  soul. 

"  Houseman  was  to  have  come  to  me  at  midnight,  just  be- 
fore Clarke  left  his  house,  but  it  was  nearly  two  hours  after 
that  time  ere  he  arrived.  I  was  then  walking  to  and  fro  before 
my  own  door  ;  I  saw  that  he  was  not  alone,  but  with  Clarke. 
'Ha!'  said  he,  'this  is  fortunate;  I  see  you  are  just  going 
home.  You  were  engaged,  I  recollect,  at  some  distance  from 
the  town,  and  have,  I  suppose,  just  returned.  Will  you  admit 
Mr.  Clarke  and  myself  for  a  short  time  ? — for  to  tell  you  the 
truth,'  said  he,  in  a  lower  voice — '  the  watchman  is  about,  and 
we  must  not  be  seen  by  him  !  I  have  told  Clarke  that  he  may 
trust  you, — we  are  relatives  ! ' 

"  Clarke,  who  seemed  strangely  credulous  and  indifferent, 
considering  the  character  of  his  associate, — but  those  whom 
Fate  destroys  she  first  blinds, — made  the  same  request  in  a 
careless  tone,  assigning  the  same  cause.  Unwillingly,  I  opened 
the  door  and  admitted  them.  We  went  up  to  my  chamber. 
Clarke  spoke  with  the  utmost  unconcern  of  the  fraud  he  pur- 
posed, and,  with  a  heartlessness  that  made  my  veins  boil,  of 
the  poor  wretch  his  brutality  had  destroyed.  They  stayed  for 
nearly  an  hour,  for  the  watchman  remained  some  time  in  that 
beat — and  then  Houseman  asked  me  to  accompany  them  a  lit- 
tle way  out  of  the  town.  Clarke  seconded  the  request.  We 
walked  forth  :  the  rest — why  need  I  tell  ?  I  cannot- — O  God, 
I  cannot !  Houseman  lied  in  the  court.  I  did  not  strike  the 
blow — I  never  designed  a  murder.  Crime  enough  in  a  rob- 
ber's deed  !  He  fell — he  grasped  my  hand,  raised  not  to 
strike  but  to  shield  him  !  Never  more  has  the  right  hand 
cursed  by  that  dying  clasp  been  given  in  pledge  of  human  faith 


EUGENE     ARAM.  361 

and  friendship.  But  the  deedwns  done,  and  the  robber's  com- 
rade, in  the  eyes  of  man  and  law,  was  the  murderer's  accom- 
plice. 

"  Houseman  divided  the  booty  :  my  share  he  buried  in  the 
earth,  leaving  me  to  withdraw  it  when  I  chose.  There,  per- 
haps, it  lies  still.  I  never  touched  what  I  had  murdered  my 
07t>n  life  to  gain.  His  share,  by  the  aid  of  a  gipsy  hag  with 
whom  he  had  dealings,  Houseman  removed  to  London.  And 
now,  mark  what  poor  strugglers  we  are  in  the  eternal  web  of 
destiny  !  Three  days  after  that  deed,  a  relation  who  neglected 
me  in  life  died,  and  left  me  wealth  ! — wealth  at  least  to  me  ! — 
Wealth,  greater  than  that  for  which  I  had .  .  .  .  !  The 
news  fell  on  me  as  a  thunderbolt.  Had  I  waited  but  three 
little  days  !  Just  Heaven  !  when  they  told  me,  I  thought  I 
heard  the  devils  laugh  out  at  the  fool  who  had  boasted  wis- 
dom !  Had  I  waited  but  three  days,  three  little  days  ! — 
Had  but  a  dream  been  sent  me,  had  but  my  heart  cried 
within  me — '  Thou  hast  suffered  long,  tarry  yet ! ' '  No, 
it  was  for  this,  for  the  guilt  and  its  penance,  for  the  wasted 
life  and  the  shameful  death — with  all  my  thirst  for  good, 
my  dreams  of  glory — that  I  was  born,  that  I  was  marked  from 
my  first  sleep  in  the  cradle  ! 

"The  disappearance  of  Clarke  of  course  created  great  excite- 
ment ;  those  whom  he  had  over-reached  had  naturally  an  inter- 
est in  discovering  him.  Some  vague  surmises  that  he  might 
have  been  made  away  with  were  rumored  abroad.  Houseman 
and  I,  owing  to  some  concurrence  of  circumstance,  were 
examined, — not  that  suspicion  attached  to  me  before  or  after 
the  examination.  That  ceremony  ended  in  nothing.  House- 
man did  not  betray  himself  ;  and  I,  who  from  a  boy  had  mas- 
tered my  passions,  could  master  also  the  nerves  by  which 
passions  are  betrayed  :  but  I  read  in  the  face  of  the  woman 
with  whom  I  lodged  that  I  was  suspected.  Houseman  told  me 
that  she  had  openly  expressed  her  suspicion  to  him  ;  nay,  he 
entertained  some  design  against  her  life,  which  he  naturally 

*  Aram  has  hitherto  been  suffered  to  tell  his  own  tale  without  comment  or  interruption. 
The  chain  of  reasonings,  the  metaphysical  labyrinth  of  defence  and  motive,_  which  he 
wrought  around  his  guilt,  it  was,  in  justice  to  him,  necessary  to  give  at  length,  in  order  to 
throw  a  clearer  light  on  his  character — and  lighten,  perhaps,  in  some  measure,  the  colors 
of  his  crime.  No  moral  can  be  more  impressive  than  that  which  teaches  how  man  can  en- 
tangle himself  in  his  own  sophisms— that  moral  is  better,  viewed  aright,  than  volumes  of 
homilies.  But  here  I  must  paus-e  for  one  moment,  to  bid  the  reader  remark,  that  that 
event  which  confirmed  Aram  in  the  bewildering  doctrines  of  his  pernicious  fatalism,  ought 
rather  to  inculcate  the  divine  virtue— the  foundation  of  all  virtues,  Heathen  or  Christian — 
that  which  Epictetus  made  clear,  and  Christ  sacred — FORTITUDE.  The  reader  will  note, 
that  the  answer  to  the  reasonings  that  probably  convinced  the  mind  of  Aram,  and  blinded 
him  to  his  crime,  may  be  found  in  the  change  of  feelings  by  which  the  crime  was  followed. 
I  must  apologize  for  this  interruption;  it  seemed  to  me  advisable  in  this  place. 


362  EUGENE    ARAM. 

abandoned  on  quitting  the  town.  This  he  did  soon  afterwards. 
I  did  not  linger  long  behind  him.  I  received  my  legacy,  and  de- 
parted on  foot  to  Scotland.  And  now  I  was  above  want — was 
I 'at  rest?  Not  yet.  1  felt  urged  on  to  wander;  Cain's  curse 
descends  to  Cain's  children.  I  travelled  for  some  considerable 
time, — I  saw  men  and  cities,  and  I  opened  a  new  volume  in  my 
kind.  It  was  strange  ;  but  before  the  deed,  I  was  as  a  child  in 
the  ways  of  the  world,  and  a  child,  despite  my  knowledge, 
might  have  duped  me.  The  moment  after  it,  a  light  broke 
upon  me  ;  it  seemed  as  if  my  eyes  were  touched  with  a  charm, 
and  rendered  capable  of  piercing  the  hearts  of  men  !  Yes,  it 
was  a  charm, — a  new  charm — it  was  SUSPICION  !  I  now  prac- 
tised myself  in  the  use  of  arms, — they  made  my  sole  compan- 
ions. Peaceful  as  I  seemed  to  the  world,  I  felt  there  was  that 
eternally  within  me  with  which  the  world  was  at  war. 

"  And  what  became  of  the  superb  ambition  which  had 
undone  me  ?  Where  vanished  that  Grand  Discovery  which  was 
to  benefit  the  world  ?  The  ambition  died  in  remorse,  and  the 
vessel  that  should  have  borne  me  to  the  far  Land  of  Science 
lay  rotting  piecemeal  on  a  sea  of  blood.  The  Past  destroyed 
my  old  heritage  in  the  Future.  The  consciousness  that  at  any 
hour,  in  the  possession  of  honors,  by  the  hearth  of  love,  I 
might  be  dragged  forth  and  proclaimed  a  murderer  ;  that  I 
held  my  life,  my  reputation,  at  the  breath  of  accident  ;  that  in 
the  moment  I  least  dreamed  of,  the  earth  might  yield  its  dead, 
and  the  gibbet  demand  its  victim, — this  could  I  feel — all 
this — and  not  see  a  spectre  in  the  place  of  science  ? — a  spectre 
that  walked  by  my  side,  that  slept  in  my  bed,  that  rose  from 
my  books,  that  glided  between  me  and  the  stars  of  heaven,  that 
stole  along  the  flowers,  and  withered  their  sweet  breath  ;  that 
whispered  in  my  ear,  '  Toil,  fool,  and  be  wise  ;  the  gift  of  wis- 
dom is  to  place  us  above  the  reach  of  fortune,  but  thou  art  her 
veriest  minion  ! '  Yes  ;  I  paused  at  last  from  my  wanderings, 
and  surrounded  myself  with  books,  and  knowledge  became 
once  more  (o  me  what  it  had  been, a  thirst,  but  not  what  it  had 
been,  a  reward.  I  occupied  my  thoughts,  I  laid  up  new 
hoards  within  my  mind,  I  looked  around,  and  I  saw  few  whose 
stores  were  like  my  own,— --but  gone  for  ever  the  sublime  de- 
sire of  applying  wisdom  to  the  service  of  mankind  !  Mankind 
had  grown  my  foes.  I  looked  upon  them  with  other  eyes.  I 
knew  that  I  carried  within  me  that  secret  which,  if  bared  to 
day,  would  make  them  loathe  and  hate  me, — yea,  though  I 
coined  my  future  life  into  one  series  of  benefits  to  them  and 
their  posterity  !  Was  not  this  thought  enough  to  quell  my  ardor — • 


EUGENE     ARAM.  363 

to  chill  activity  into  rest  ?  The  brighter  the  honors  I  might 
win — the  greater  services  I  might  bestow  on  the  world,  the  more 
dread  and  fearful  might  be  my  fall  at  last !  I  might  be  but 
piling  up  the  scaffold  from  which  I  was  to  be  hurled  !  Pos- 
sessed by  these  thoughts,  a  new  view  of  human  affairs  suc- 
ceeded to  my  old  aspirings  :  the  moment  a  man  feels  that  an 
object  has  ceased  to  charm,  his  reasonings  reconcile  himself  to 
his  loss.  'Why,'  said  I,  '  why  flatter  myself  that  I  can  serve, 
that  I  can  enlighten  mankind  ?  Are  we  fully  sure  that  indi- 
vidual wisdom  has  ever,  in  reality,  done  so  ?  Are  we  really 
better  because  Newton  lived,  and  happier  because  Bacon 
thought  ? '  These  freezing  reflections  pleased  the  present  state 
of  my  mind  more  than  the  warm  and  yearning  enthusiasm  it 
had  formerly  nourished.  Mere  worldly  ambition  from  a  boy  I 
had  disdained  ;  the  true  worth  of  sceptres  and  crowns,  the 
disquietude  of  power,  the  humiliations  of  vanity,  had  never 
been  disguised  from  my  sight.  Intellectual  ambition  had  in- 
spired me.  I  now  regarded  it  equally  as  a  delusion.  I  cov- 
eted light  solely  for  my  own  soul  to  bathe  in. 

"  Rest  now  became  to  me  the  sole  to  kalon,  the  sole  charm  of 
existence.  I  grew  enamoured  of  the  doctrine  of  those  old  mys- 
tics who  have  placed  happiness  only  in  an  even  and  balanced 
quietude.  And  where  but  in  utter  loneliness  was  that  quietude 
to  be  enjoyed  ?  I  no  longer  wondered  that  men  in  former 
times,  when  consumed  by  the  recollection  of  some  haunting 
guilt,  fled  to  the  desert  and  became  hermits.  Tranquillity  and 
solitude  are  the  only  soothers  of  a  memory  deeply  troubled  ; 
light  griefs  fly  to  the  crowd,  fierce  thoughts  must  battle  them- 
selves to  rest.  Many  years  had  flown,  and  I  had  made  my 
home  in  many  places.  All  that  was  turbulent,  if  not  all  that 
was  unquiet,  in  my  recollections,  had  died  away.  Time  had 
lulled  me  into  a  sense  of  security.  I  breathed  more  freely.  I 
sometimes  stole  from  the  past.  Since  I  had  quitted  Knares- 
bro'  chance  had  often  thrown  it  in  my  power  to  serve  my 
brethren — not  by  wisdom,  but  by  charity  or  courage — by  indi- 
vidual acts  that  it  soothed  me  to  remember.  If  the  grand  aim 
of  enlightening  a  world  was  gone,  if  to  so  enlarged  a  benevo- 
lence had  succeeded  apathy  or  despair,  still  the  man,  the  hu- 
man man,  clung  to  my  heart ;  still  was  I  as  prone  to  pity,  as 
prompt  to  defend,  as  glad  to  cheer  whenever  the  vicissitudes  of 
life  afforded  me  the  occasion,  and  to  poverty,  most  of  all,  my 
hand  never  closed.  For  oh  !  what  a  terrible  devil  creeps  into 
that  man's  soul  who  sees  famine  at  his  door  !  One  tender  act, 
and  how  many  black  designs,  struggling  into  life  within,  you 


364  EUGENE      ARAM. 

may  crush  forever  !  He  who  deems  the  world  his  foe, — con- 
vince him  that  he  has  one  friend,  and  it  is  like  snatching  a 
dagger  from  his  hand  ! 

"  I  came  to  a  beautiful  and  remote  part  of  the  country. 
Walter  Lester,  I  came  to  Grassdale  ! — the  enchanting  scenery 
around,  the  sequestered  and  deep  retirement  of  the  place,  ar- 
rested me  at  once.  'And  among  these  valleys,'  I  said,  '  will  I 
linger  out  the  rest  of  my  life,  and  among  these  quiet  graves 
shall  mine  be  dug,  and  my  secret  shall  die  with  me  !  ' 

"  I  rented  the  lonely  house  in  which  I  dwelt  when  you  first 
knew  me  ;  thither  I  transported  my  books  and  instruments  of 
science,  and  a  deep  quiet,  almost  amounting  to  content,  fell 
like  a  sweet  sleep  upon  my  soul ! 

"  In  this  state  of  mind,  the  most  free  from  memory  that  I 
had  known  for  twelve  years,  I  first  saw  Madeline  Lester.  Even 
with  that  first  time  a  sudden  and  heavenly  light  seemed  to 
dawn  upon  me.  Her  face — its  still,  its  serene,  its  touching 
beauty — shone  down  on  my  desolation  like  a  dream  of  mercy — 
like  a  hope  of  pardon.  My  heart  warmed  as  I  beheld  it,  my 
pulse  woke  from  its  even  slowness.  I  was  young  once  more. 
Young  !  the  youth,  the  freshness,  the  ardor — not  of  the  frame 
only,  but  of  the  soul.  But  I  then  only  saw,  or  spoke  to  her — 
scarce  knew  her — not  loved  her — nor  was  it  often  that  we  met. 
The  south  wind  stirred  the  dark  waters  of  my  mind,  but  it 
passed,  and  all  became  hushed  again.  It  was  not  for  two  years 
from  the  time  we  first  saw  each  other  that  accident  brought 
us  closely  together.  I  pass  over  the  rest.  We  loved  !  Yet, 
oh  what  struggles  were  mine  during  the  progress  of  that  love ! 
How  unnatural  did  it  seem  to  me  to  yield  to  a  passion  that 
united  me  with  my  kind  ;  and  as  I  loved  her  more,  how  far 
more  torturing  grew  my  fear  of  the  future  !  That  which  had 
almost  slept  before  awoke  again  to  terrible  life.  The  soil  that 
covered  the  past  might  be  riven,  the  dead  awake,  and  that 
ghastly  chasm  separate  me  forever  from  HER?  What  a  doom, 
too,  might  I  bring  upon  that  breast  which  had  begun  so  con- 
fidingly to  love  me  !  Often — often  I  resolved  to  fly — to  for- 
sake her — to  seek  some  desert  spot  in  the  distant  parts  of  the 
world,  and  never  to  be  betrayed  again  into  human  emotions  ! 
But  as  the  bird  flutters  in  the  net,  as  the  hare  doubles  from  its 
pursuers,  I  did  but  wrestle,  I  did  but  trifle,  with  an  irresistible 
doom.  Mark  how  strange  are  the  coincidences  of  Fate — Fate 
that  gives  us  warnings,  and  takes  away  the  power  to  obey 
them — the  idle  prophetess,  the  juggling  fiend  !  On  the  same 
evening  that  brought  me  acquainted  with  Madeline  Lester, 


EUGENE     ARAM.  365 

Houseman,  led  by  schemes  of  fraud  and  violence  into  that 
part  of  the  country,  discovered  and  sought  me  !  Imagine  my 
feelings,  when  in  the  hush  of  night  I  opened  the  door  of  my 
lonely  home  to  his  summons,  and  by  the  light  of  that  moon 
which  had  witnessed  so  never-to-be-forgotten  a  companionship 
between  us,  beheld  my  accomplice  in  murder  after  the  lapse  of 
so  many  years.  Time  and  a  course  of  vice  had  changed,  and 
hardened,  and  lowered  his  nature  :  and  in  the  power, — at  the 
will — of  that  nature,  I  beheld  myself  abruptly  placed.  He 
passed  that  night  under  my  roof.  He  was  poor.  I  gave  him 
what  was  in  my  hands.  He  promised  to  leave  that  part  of 
England — to  seek  me  no  more. 

"  The  next  day  I  could  not  bear  my  own  thoughts  ;  the  re- 
vulsion was  too  sudden,  too  full  of  turbulent,  fierce,  torturing 
emotions ;  I  fled  for  a  short  relief  to  the  house  to  which 
Madeline's  father  had  invited  me.  But  in  vain  I  sought,  by 
wine,  by  converse,  by  human  voices,  human  kindness,  to  fly 
the  ghost  that  had  been  raised  from  the  grave  of  time.  I  soon 
returned  to  my  own  thoughts.  I  resolved  to  wrap  myself  once 
more  in  the  solitude  of  my  heart.  But  let  me  not  repeat  what 
I  have  said  before,  somewhat  prematurely,  in  my  narrative.  I 
resolved — I  struggled  in  vain  :  Fate  had  ordained  that  the 
sweet  life  of  Madeline  Lester  should  wither  beneath  the  poison 
tree  of  mine.  Houseman  sought  me  again  ;  and  now  came  on 
the  humbling  part  of  crime,  its  low  calculations,  its  poor 
defence,  its  paltry  trickery,  its  mean  hypocrisy !  They  made 
my  chiefest  penance !  I  was  to  evade,  to  beguile,  to  buy  into 
silence  this  rude  and  despised  ruffian.  No  matter  now  to 
repeat  how  this  task  was  fulfilled  :  I  surrendered  nearly  my  all 
on  the  condition  of  his  leaving  England  forever  :  not  till  I 
thought  that  condition  already  fulfilled,  till  the  day  had  passed 
on  which  he  should  have  left  England,  did  I  consent  to  allow 
Madeline's  fate  to  be  irrevocably  woven  with  mine. 

"  How  often,  when  the  soul  sins,  are  her  loftiest  feelings 
punished  through  her  lowest  !  To  me,  lone,  rapt,  forever  on 
the  wing  to  unearthly  speculation,  galling  and  humbling  was  it, 
indeed,  to  be  suddenly  called  from  the  eminence  of  thought, 
to  barter,  in  pounds  and  pence,  for  life,  and  with  one  like  House- 
man !  These  are  the  curses  that  deepen  the  tragedy  of  life, 
by  grinding  down  our  pride.  But  I  wander  back  to  what  I 
have  before  said.  I  was  to  marry  Madeline ;  I  was  once  more 
poor,  but  want  did  not  rise  before  me  ;  I  had  succeeded  in 
obtaining  the  promise  of  a  competence  from  one  whom  you 
know.  For  that  which  I  had  once  sought  to  force  from  my 


366  EUGENE     ARAM. 

kind,  I  asked  now,  not  with  the  spirit  of  the  beggar,  but  of  the 
just  claimant,  and  in  that  spirit  it  was  granted.  And  now  I  was 
really  happy  ;  Houseman  1  believed  removed  forever  from  my 
path  ;  Madeline  was  about  to  be  mine ;  I  surrendered  myself 
to  love,  and,  blind  and  deluded,  I  wandered  on,  and  awoke  on 
the  brink  of  that  precipice  into  which  I  am  about  to  plunge, 
You  know  the  rest.  But  oh  !  what  now  was  my  horror  !  It 
had  not  been  a  mere  worthless,  isolated  unit  in  creation  that  I 
had  seen  blotted  out  of  the  sum  of  life.  The  murder  done  in 
my  presence,  and  of  which  Law  would  deem  me  the  accom- 
plice, had  been  done  upon  the  brother  of  him  whose  child  was 
my  betrothed  !  Mysterious  avenger,  relentless  Fate  !  How, 
when  I  deemed  myself  the  farthest  from  her,  had  I  been  sink- 
ing into  her  grasp  !  How  incalculable,  how  measureless,  how 
viewless  the  consequences  of  one  crime,  even  when  we  think 
we  have  weighed  them  all  with  scales  that  would  have  turned 
with  a  hair's  weight  !  Hear  me — as  the  voice  of  a  man  who  is 
on  the  brink  of  a  world,  the  awful  nature  of  which  reason  can- 
not pierce — hear  me  !  when  your  heart  tempts  to  some  wan- 
dering from  the  line  allotted  to  the  rest  of  men,  and  whispers, 
'This  may  be  crime  in  others,  but  is  not  so  in  thee  ;  or,  it  is 
but  one  misdeed,  it  shall  entail  no  other,' — tremble  ;  cling  fast, 
fast  to  the  path  you  are  lured  to  leave.  Remember  me  ! 

"  But  in  this  state  of  mind  I  was  yet  forced  to  play  the  hypo- 
crite. Had  I  been  alone  in  the  world,  had  Madeline  and 
Lester  not  been  to  me  what  they  were,  I  might  have  disproved 
the  charge  of  fellowship  in  murder ;  I  might  have  wrung  from 
the  pale  lips  of  Houseman  the  actual  truth  ;  but  though  I 
might  clear  myself  as  the  murderer,  I  must  condemn  myself  as 
the  robber,  and  in  avowal  of  that  lesser  guilt,  though  I  might 
have  lessened  the  abhorrence  of  others,  I  should  have  inflicted 
a  blow,  worse  than  that  of  my  death  itself,  on  the  hearts  of 
those  who  deemed  me  sinless  as  themselves.  Their  eyes  were 
on  me  ;  their  lives  were  set  on  my  complete  acquittal,  less  even 
of  life  than  honor  ;  my  struggle  against  truth  was  less  for  my- 
self than  them.  My  defence  fulfilled  its  end  :  Madeline  died 
without  distrusting  the  innocence  of  him  she  loved.  Lester, 
unless  you  betray  me,  will  die  in  the  same  belief.  In  truth, 
since  the  arts  of  hypocrisy  have  been  commenced,  the  pride  of 
consistency  would  have  made  it  sweet  to  me  to  leave  the  world 
in  a  like  error,  or  at  least  in  doubt.  For  you  I  conquer  that 
desire,  the  proud  man's  last  frailty.  And  now  my  tale  is  done. 
From  what  passes  at  this  instant  within  my  heart,  I  lift  not  the 
veil !  Whether  beneath  be  despair,  or  hope,  or  fiery  emotions, 


ARAM.  367 

.or  one  settled  and  ominous  calm,  matters  not.  My  last  hours 
shall  not  belie  my  life  :  on  the  verge  of  death  I  will  not  play 
the  dastard,  and  tremble  at  the  Dim  Unknown.  Perhaps  I  am 
not  without  hope  that  the  Great  and  Unseen  Spirit,  whose 
emanation  within  me  I  have  nursed  and  worshipped,  though 
erringly  and  in  vain,  may  see  in  his  fallen  creature  one  bewil- 
dered by  his  reason  rather  than  yielding  to  his  vices.  The 
guide  I  received  from  heaven  betrayed  me,  and  I  was  lost  ; 
but  I  have  not  plunged  wittingly  from  crime  to  crime. 
Against  one  guilty  deed,  some  good,  and  much  suffering,  may 
be  set  ;  and  dim  and  afar  off  from  my  allotted  bourn,  I  may 
behold  in  her  glorious  home  the  face  of  her  who  taught  me 
to  love,  and  who,  even  there,  could  scarce  be  blessed  without 
shedding  the  light  of  her  divine  forgiveness  upon  me. 
Enough  !  ere  you  break  this  seal,  my  doom  rests  not  with  man 
nor  earth.  The  burning  desires  I  have  known — the  resplen- 
dent visions  I  have  nursed — the  sublime  aspirings  that  have 
lifted  me  so  often  from  sense  and  clay — these  tell  me,  that, 
whether  for  good  or  ill,  I  am  the  thing  of  an  Immortality,  and 
the  creature  of  a  God  !  As  men  of  the  old  wisdom  drew  their 
garments  around  their  face,  and  sat  down  collectedly  to  die, 
I  wrap  myself  in  the  settled  resignation  of  a  soul  firm  to 
the  last,  and  taking  not  from  man's  vengeance  even  the 
method  of  its  dismissal.  The  courses  of  my  life  I  swayed 
with  my  own  hand  ;  from  my  own  hand  shall  come  the  man- 
ner and  moment  of  my  death  !  'EUGENE  ARAM. 

"August,  I759-" 

On  the  day  after  that  evening  in  which  Aram  bad  given  the 
above  confession  to  Walter  Lester — on  the  day  of  execution, 
when  they  entered  the  condemned  cell,  they  found  the  prisoner 
lying  on  the  bed  ;  and  when  they  approached  to  take  off  the 
irons,  they  found  that  he  neither  stirred  nor  answered  to  their 
call.  They  attempted  to  raise  him,  and  he  then  uttered  some 
words  in  a  faint  voice.  They  perceived  that  he  was  covered 
with  blood.  He  had  opened  his  veins  in  two  places  in  the 
arm  with  a  sharp  instrument  which  he  had  contrived  to  conceal. 
A  surgeon  was  instantly  sent  for,  and  by  the  customary  appli- 
cations the  prisoner  in  some  measure  was  brought  to  himself. 
Resolved  not  to  defraud  the  law  of  its  victim,  they  bore  him, 
though  he  appeared  unconscious  of  all  around,  to  the  fatal 
spot.  But  when  he  arrived  at  that  dread  place,  his  sense  sud- 
denly seemed  to  return.  He  looked  hastily  round  the  throng 
that  swayed  and  murmured  below,  and  a  faint  flush  rose  to  his 
cheek  ;  he  cast  his  eyes  impatiently  above,  and  breathed  hard 


EUGENE      ARAM\ 

and  convulsively.  The  dire  preparations  were  made,  com- 
pleted ;  but  the  prisoner  drew  back  for  an  instant — was  it' 
from  mortal  fear  ?  He  motioned  to  the  clergyman  to  approach, 
as  if  about  to  whisper  some  last  request  in  his  ear.  The 
clergyman  bowed  his  head — there  was  a  minute's  awful  pause — 
Aram  seemed  to  struggle  as  for  words,  when,  suddenly 
throwing  himself  back,  a  bright  triumphant  smile  flashed  over 
his  whole  face.  With  that  smile  the  haughty  spirit  passed 
away,  and  the  law's  last  indignity  was  wreaked  upon  a  breath- 
less corpse  ! 

CHAPTER  VIII.  AND  LAST. 

THE  TRAVELLER'S    RETURN. — THE   COUNTRY    VILLAGE  ONCE 

MORE    VISITED. — ITS    INHABITANTS. THE    REMEMBERED 

BROOK. —  THE    DESERTED   MANOR-HOUSE. THE    CHURCH- 
YARD.  THE    TRAVELLER    RESUMES    HIS    JOURNEY. THE 

COUNTRY  TOWN. — A  MEETING  OF  TWO  LOVERS  AFTER  LONG 
ABSENCE  AND  MUCH  SORROW. CONCLUSION. 

"  The  lopped  tree  in  time  may  grow  again, 

Most  naked  plants  renew  both  fruit  and  flower  ; 
The  sorriest  wight  may  find  release  from  pain, 
The  dryest  soil  suck  in  some  moistening  shower : 
Time  goes  by  turns,  and  chances  change  by  course 
From  foul  to  fair. — ROBERT  SOUTHWELL. 

SOMETIMES,  towards  the  end  of  a  gloomy  day,  the  sun,  before 
but  dimly  visible,  breaks  suddenly  out,  and  where  before  you 
had  noticed  only  the  sterner  outline  of  the  mountains,  you  turn 
with  relief  to  the  lowlier  features  of  the  vale.  So  in  this 
record  of  crime  and  sorrow,  the  ray  that  breaks  forth  at  the 
close  brings  into  gentle  light  the  shapes  which  the  earlier  dark- 
ness had  obscured. 

It  was  some  years  after  the  date  of  the  last  event  we  have  re- 
corded, and  it  was  a  fine  warm  noon  in  the  happy  month  of 
May,  when  a  horseman  rode  slowly  through  the  long,  straggling 
village  of  Grassdale.  He  was  a  man,  though  in  the  prime  of 
youth  (for  he  might  yet  want  some  two  years  of  thirty),  who 
bore  the  steady  and  earnest  air  of  one  who  had  wrestled  the 
world  ;  his  eye  keen  but  tranquil ;  his  sunburnt  though  hand- 
some features,  which  thought,  or  care,  had  despoiled  of  the 
roundness  of  their  early  contour,  leaving  the  cheek  somewhat 
sunken,  and  the  lines  somewhat  marked,  were  characterized  by 
a  grave  and  at  that  moment  by  a  melancholy  and  soft  expres- 


ARAM.  369 

sion  ;  and  now,  as  his  horse  proceeded  slowly  through  the  green 
lane,  which  at  every  vista  gave  glimpses  of  rich  verdant  valleys, 
the  sparkling  river,  or  the  orchard  ripe  with  the  fragrant  blos- 
soms of  spring,  his  head  drooped  upon  his  breast,  and  the  tears 
started  to  his  eyes.  The  dress  of  the  horseman  was  of  foreign 
fashion,  and  at  that  day,  when  the  garb  still  denoted  the  calling, 
sufficiently  military  to  show  the  profession  he  had  belonged  to. 
And  well  did  the  garb  become  the  short,  dark  moustache,  the 
sinewy  chest,  the  length  of  limb,  of  the  young  horseman  :  rec- 
ommendations, the  two  latter,  not  despised  in  the  court  of  the 
great  Frederic  of  Prussia,  in  whose  service  he  had  borne  arms. 
He  had  commenced  his  career  in  that  battle  terminating  in  the 
signal  defeat  of  the  bold  Daun,  when  the  fortunes  of  that  gal- 
lant general  paled  at  last  before  the  star  of  the  greatest  of 
modern  kings.  The  peace  of  1763  had  left  Prussia  in  the 
quiet  enjoyment  of  the  glory  she  had  obtained,  and  the  young 
Englishman  took  the  advantage  it  afforded  him  of  seeing,  as  a 
traveller,  not  despoiler,  the  rest  of  Europe. 

The  adventure  and  the  excitement  of  travel  pleased,  and  left 
him  even  now  uncertain  whether  or  not  his  present  return  to 
England  would  be  for  long.  He  had  not  been  a  week  returned, 
and  to  this  part  of  his  native  country  he  had  hastened  at  once. 

He  checked  his  horse  as  he  now  passed  the  memorable  sign 
that  yet  swung  before  the  door  of  Peter  Dealtry  ;  and  there, 
under  the  shade  of  the  broad  tree,  now  budding  into  all  its  ten- 
derest  verdure,  a  pedestrian  wayfarer  sat  enjoying  the  rest  and 
coolness  of  his  shelter.  Our  horseman  cast  a  look  at  the  open 
door,  across  which,  in  the  bustle  of  housewifery,  female  forms 
now  and  then  glanced  and  vanished,  and  presently  he  saw 
Peter  himself  saunter  forth  to  chat  with  the  traveller  beneath  his 
tree.  And  Peter  Dealtry  was  the  same  as  ever,  only  he  seemed 
perhaps  shorter  and  thinner  than  of  old,  as  if  Time  did  not  so 
much  break  as  gradually  wear  away  mine  host's  slender  person. 

The  horseman  gazed  for  a  moment,  but  observing  Peter  retrun 
the  gaze,  he  turned  aside  his  head,  and  putting  his  horse  into  a 
canter,  soon  passed  out  of  cognizance  of  The  Spotted  Dog. 

He  now  came  in  sight  of  the  neat  white  cottage  of  the  old 
corporal  ;  and  there,  leaning  over  the  pale,  a  crutch  under  one 
arm,  and  his  friendly  pipe  in  one  corner  of  his  shrewd  mouth, 
was  the  corporal  himself.  Perched  upon  the  railing  in  a  semi- 
doze,  the  ears  down,  the  eyes  closed,  sat  a  large  brown  cat  : 
poor  Jacobina,  it  was  not  thyself  !  death  spares  neither  cat  nor 
king  ;  but  thy  virtues  lived  in  thy  grandchild  ;  and  thy  grand- 
child (as  age  brings  dotage)  was  toved  even  more  than  thee 


370  EUGENE     ARAM. 

by  the  worthy  corporal.  Long  may  thy  race  flourish  !  for  at 
this  day  it  is  not  extinct.  Nature  rarely  inflicts  barrenness  on 
the  feline  tribe  ;  they  are  essentially  made  for  love,  and  love's 
soft  cares  ;  and  a  cat's  lineage  outlives  the  lineage  of  kaisars  ! 

At  the  sound  of  hoofs,  the  corporal  turned  his  head,  and  he 
looked  long  and  wistfully  at  the  horseman,  as,  relaxing  his 
iiorse's  pace  into  a  walk,  our  traveller  rode  slowly  on. 

"  'Fore  George,"  muttered  the  corporal,  "  a  fine  man — a  very 
fine  man,  'bout  my  inches — augh  !  " 

A  smile,  but  a  very  faint  smile,  crossed  the  lip  of  the  horse- 
man, as  he  gazed  on  the  figure  of  the  stalwart  corporal. 

"  He  eyes  me  hard,"  thought  he,  "  yet  he  does  not  seem  to 
remember  me.  I  must  be  greatly  changed.  'Tis  fortunate, 
however,  that  I  am  not  recognized  :  fain,  indeed,  at  this  time, 
would  I  come  and  go  unnoticed  and  alone." 

The  horseman  fell  into  a  revery,  which  was  broken  by  the 
murmur  of  the  sunny  rivulet,  fretting  over  each  little  obstacle 
it  met, — the  happy  and  spoiled  child  of  Nature  !  That  mur- 
mur rang  on  the  horseman's  ear  like  a  voice  from  his  boyhood  ; 
how  familiar  was  it,  how  dear  !  No  haunting  tone  of  music 
ever  recalled  so  rushing  a  host  of  memories  and  associations, 
as  that  simple,  restless,  everlasting  sound  !  Everlasting ! — all 
had  changed, — the  trees  had  sprung  up  or  decayed — some  cot- 
tages around  were  ruins, — some  new  and  unfamiliar  ones  sup- 
plied their  place  ;  and,  on  the  stranger  himself — on  all  those 
whom  the  sound  recalled  to  his  heart — Time  had  been,  indeed, 
at  work  ;  but,  with  the  same  exulting  bound  and  happy  voice, 
that  little  brook  leaped  along  its  way.  Ages  hence,  may  the 
course  be  as  glad,  and  the  murmur  as  full  of  mirth  !  They 
are  blessed  things,  those  remote  and  unchanging  streams  ! — they 
fill  us  with  the  same  love  as  if  they  were  living  creatures  ! — 
and  in  a  green  corner  of  the  world  there  is  one,  that,  for  my 
part,  I  never  see  without  forgetting  myself  to  tears — tears  that 
I  would  not  lose  for  a  king's  ransom,  tears  that  no  other  sight 
or  sound  could  call  from  their  source  ;  tears  of  what  affection, 
what  soft  regret ;  tears  through  the  soft  mists  of  which  I  be- 
hold what  I  have  lost  on  earth  and  hope  to  regain  in  heaven  ! 

The  traveller,  after  a  brief  pause,  continued  his  road  ;  and 
now  he  came  full  upon  the  old  manor-house.  The  weeds  were 
grown  up  in  the  garden,  the  mossed  paling  was  broken  in 
many  places,  the  house  itself  was  shut  up,  and  the  sun  glanced 
on  the  deep-sunk  casements,  without  finding  its  way  into  the 
desolate  interior.  High  above  the  old  hospitable  gate  hung  a 
board,  announcing  that  the  house  was  for  sale,  and  referring 


EUGENE     ARAM.  372 

the  curious  or  the  speculating  to  the  attorney  of  the  neighbor- 
ing town.  The  horseman  sighed  heavily,  and  muttered  to 
himself  ;  then,  turning  up  the  road  that  led  to  the  back 
entrance,  he  came  into  the  court-yard,  and,  leading  his  horse 
into  an  empty  stable,  he  proceeded  on  foot  through  the  dis- 
mantled premises,  pausing  with  every  moment,  and  holding  a 
sad  and  ever-changing  commune  with  himself.  An  old  woman, 
a  stranger  to  him,  was  the  sole  inmate  of  the  house  ;  and, 
imagining  he  came  to  buy,  or,  at  least,  examine,  she  conducted 
him  through  the  house,  pointing  out  its  advantages,  and  Lament- 
ing its  dilapidated  state.  Our  traveller  scarcely  heard  her ; 
but  when  he  came  to  one  room,  which  he  would  not  enter  till 
the  last  (it  was  the  little  parlor  in  which  the  once  happy 
family  had  been  wont  to  sit),  he  sank  down  in  the  chair  that 
had  been  Lester's  honored  seat,  and,  covering  his  face  with 
his  hands,  did  not  move  or  look  up  for  several  moments.  The 
old  woman  gazed  at  him  with  surprise, — "Perhaps,  sir,  you 
knew  the  family? — they  were  greatly  beloved." 

The  traveller  did  not  answer  ;  but  when  he  rose,  he  muttered 
to  himself, — "  No  ;  the  experiment  is  made  in  vain  !  Never, 
never  could  I  live  here  again  ;  it  must  be 'so — the  house  of  my 
forefathers  must  pass  into  a  stranger's  hands."  With  this 
reflection  he  hurried  from  the  house,  and  re-entering  the  garden, 
turned  through  a  little  gate  that  swung  half  open  on  its  shat- 
tered hinges,  and  led  into  the  green  and  quiet  sanctuaries  of 
the  dead.  The  same  touching  character  of  deep  and  undis- 
turbed repose  that  hallows  the  country  churchyard, — and  that 
one  more  than  most, — yet  brooded  there,  as  when,  years  ago,  it 
woke  his  young  mind  to  reflection,  then  unmingled  with  regret. 

He  passed  over  the  rude  mounds  of  earth  that  covered  the 
deceased  poor,  and  paused  at  a  tomb  of  higher,  though  but  of 
simple  pretensions  ;  it  was  not  yet  discolored  by  the  dews  and 
seasons,  and  the  short  inscription  traced  upon  it  was  strikingly 
legible  in  comparison  with  those  around  : 


ROWLAND  LESTER, 

Obiit  1760,  set.  64. 

Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,  for  they 
shall  be  comforted. 


By  that  tomb  the  traveller  remained  in  undisturbed  contem- 
plation for  some  time  ;  and  when  he  turned,  all  the  swarthy 
color  had  died  from  his  cheek,  his  eyes  were  dim,  and  the 


372  EUGENE     ARAM. 

wonted  pride  of  a  young  man's  step  and  a  soldier's  bearing 
was  gone  from  his  mien. 

As  he  looked  up,  his  eye  caught  afar,  embedded  among  the 
soft  verdure  of  the  spring,  one  lone  and  gray  house,  from  whose 
chimney  there  rose  no  smoke — sad,  inhospitable,  dismantled  as 
that  beside  which  he  now  stood  ;  as  if  the  curse  which  had 
fallen  on  the  inmates  of  either  mansion  still  clung  to  either 
roof.  One  hasty  glance  only  the  traveller  gave  to  the  solitary 
and  distant  abode, — and  then  started  and  quickened  his  pace. 

On  re-entering  the  stables,  the  traveller  found  the  corporal 
examining  his  horse  from  head  to  foot  with  great  care  and 
attention. 

"Good  hoofs,  too,  humph!"  quoth  the  corporal,  as  he 
released  the  front  leg  ;  and,  turning  round,  saw,  with  some 
little  confusion,  the  owner  of  the  steed  he  had  been  honor- 
ing with  so  minute  a  survey.  "Oh, — augh  !  looking  at  the 
beastie,  sir,  lest  it  might  have  a  cast  shoe.  Thought  your 
honor  might  want  some  intelligent  person  to  show  you  the 
premises,  if  so  be  you  have  come  to  buy  ;  nothing  but  an  old 
'oman  there  ;  dare  £ay  your  honor  does  not  like  old  'omen — 
augh  !  " 

"  The  owner  is  not  in  these  parts  ? "  said  the  horseman. 

"  No,  overseas,  sir ;  a  fine  young  gentleman,  but  hasty  ;  and — 
and — but  Lord  bless  me  !  sure — no,  it  can't  be — yes,  now  you 
turn— it  is — it  is  my  young  master  !  "  So  saying,  the  corporal, 
roused  into  affection,  hobbled  up  to  the  wanderer,  and  seized 
and  kissed  his  hand.  "  Ah,  sir,  we  shall  be  glad,  indeed,  to 
see  you  back  after  such  doings.  But's  all  forgotten  now,  and 
gone  by — augh  !  Poor  Miss  Ellinor,  how  happy  she'll  be  to 
see  your  honor.  Ah  !  how  she  be  changed,  surely  !  " 

"Changed  ;  ay,  I  make  no  doubt !  What  ?  does  she  look  in 
weak  health? " 

"No  ;  as  to  that,  your  honor,  she  be  winsome  enough  still," 
quoth  the  corporal,  smacking  his  lips  ;  "I  seed  her  the  week 

afore  last,  when  I  went  over  to ,  for  I  suppose  you  knows 

as  she  lives  there,  all  alone  like,  in  a  small  house,  with  a  green 
rail  afore  it,  and  a  brass  knocker  on  the  door  at  top  of  the 

town,  with  a  fine  view  of  the  • hills  in  front  ?     Well,  sir,  I 

seed  her,  and  mighty  handsome  she  looked,  though  a  little 
thinner  than  she  was  ;  but,  for  all  that,  she  be  greatly  changed." 

"  How  !  for  the  worse  ?  " 

"  For  the  worse,  indeed,"  answered  the  corporal,  assuming 
an  air  of  melancholy  and  grave  significance  ;  "  she  be  grown 
so  religious,  sir,  think  of  that — augh— bother — whaugh  !  " 


EUGENE     ARAM.  373 

"  Is  that  all  ? "  said  Walter,  relieved,  and  with  a  slight  smile. 
"And  she  lives  alone?" 

"  Quite,  poor  young  lady,  as  if  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  be  an  old  maid  ;  though  I  know  as  how  she  refused  Squire 
Knyvett  of  the  Grange, — waiting  for  your  honor's  return, 
mayhap  ! " 

"  Lead  out  the  horse,  Bunting  ;  but  stay,  I  am  sorry  to  see 
you  with  a  crutch  ;  what's  the  cause  ?  no  accident,  I 
trust?" 

"  Merely  rheumatics — will  attack  the  youngest  of  us  ;  never 
been  quite  myself  since  I  went  a-travelling  with  your  honor — 
augh  ! — without  going  to  Lunnun  arter  all.  But  I  shall  be 
stronger  next  year,  I  dare  to  say  !  " 

"  I  hope  you  will.  Bunting.  And  Miss  Lester  lives  alone, 
you  say  ?  " 

"  Ay  ;  and  for  all  she  be  so  religious,  the  poor  about  do 
bless  her  very  footsteps.  She  does  a  power  of  good  ;  she  gave 
me  half  a  guinea  last  Tuesday  fortnight ;  an  excellent  young 
lady,  so  sensible  like  !  " 

"Thank  you  ;  I  can  tighten  the  girths  ! — so  ! — there,  Bunt- 
ing,— there's  something  for  old  companionship's  sake." 

"  Thank  your  honor  ;  you  be  too  good,  always  was — baugh  ! 
But  I  hopes  your  honor  be  a-coming  to  live  here  now  ;  'twill 
make  things  smile  again  ! " 

"  No,  Bunting,  I  fear  not,"  said  Walter,  spurring  through 
the  gates  of  the  yard.  "Good-day." 

"  Augh,  then,"  cried  the  corporal,  hobbling  breathlessly 
after  him.  "  if  so  be  as  I  sha'n't  see  your  honor  again,  at  which 
I  am  extramely  consarned,  will  your  honor  recollecc  your  prom- 
ise, touching  the  'tato  ground  ?  The  steward,  Master  Bailey, 
'od  rot  him  !  has  clean  forgot  it — augh  !  " 

"The  same  old  man,  Bunting,  eh  ?  Well,  make  your  mind 
easy  ;  it  shall  be  done." 

"  Lord  bless  your  honor's  good  heart  ;  thank  ye;  and — and," 
laying  his  hand  on  the  bridle — "  your  honor  did  say  the  bit  cot 
should  be  rent  free  ?  You  see,  your  honor,"  quoth  the  corporal, 
drawing  up  with  a  grave  smile,  "  I  may  marry  some  day  or 
other,  and  have  a  large  family ;  and  the  rent  won't  sit  so  easy 
then — augh  !  " 

"  Let  go  the  rein,  Bunting — and  consider  your  house  rent- 
free." 

"  And  your  honor — and — " 

But  Walter  was  already  in  a  brisk  trot ;  and  the  remaining 
petitions  of  the  corporal  died  in  empty  air. 


374  EUGENE     ARAM. 

"A  good  day's  work,  too,"  muttered  Jacob,  hobbling  home- 
ward. "  What  a  green  un  'tis,  still  !  Never  be  a  man  of  the 
world — augh  !  " 

For  two  hours  Walter  did  not  relax  the  rapidity  of  his  pace ; 
and  when  he  did  so  at  the  descent  of  a  steep  hill,  a  small  coun- 
try town  lay  before  him,  the  sun  glittering  on  its  single  spire, 
and  lighting  up  the  long,  clean,  centre  street,  with  the  good  old- 
fashioned  garden  stretching  behind  each  house,  and  detached 
cottages  around,  peeping  forth  here  and  there  from  the  blos- 
soms and  verdure  of  the  young  May.  He  rode  into  the  yard 
of  the  principal  inn,  and  putting  up  his  horse,  inquired,  in  a 
tone  that  he  persuaded  himself  was  the  tone  of  indifference,  for 
Miss  Lester's  house. 

"John,"  said  the  landlady  (landlord  there  was  none),  sum- 
moning a  little  boy  of  about  ten  years  old — "run  on"  and  show 
this  gentleman  the  good  lady's  house  :  and — stay — his  honor 
will  excuse  you  a  moment — just  take  up  the  nosegay  you  cut 
for  her  this  morning:  she  loves  flowers.  Ah!  sir,  an  excellent 
young  lady  is  Miss  Lester,"  continued  the  hostess,  as  the  boy 
ran  back  for  the  nosegay;  "so  charitable,  so  kind,  so  meek  to 
all.  Adversity,  they  say,  softens  some  characters ;  but  she 
must  always  have  been  good.  Well,  God  bless  her !  and  that 
every  one  must  say.  My  boy  John,  sir, — he  is  not  eleven  yet, 
come  next  August — a  'cute  boy,  calls  her  the  good  lady  ;  we 
now  always  call  her  so  here.  Come,  John,  that's  right.  You 
stay  to  dine  here,  sir?  Shall  I  put  down  a  chicken  ?" 

At  the  farther  extremity  of  the  town  stood  Miss  Lester's 
dwelling.  It  was  the  house  in  which  her  father  had  spent  his 
last  days  ;  and  there  she  had  continued  to  reside,  when  left  by 
his  death  to  a  small  competence,  which  Walter,  then  abroad, 
had  persuaded  her  (for  her  pride  was  of  the  right  kind)  to  suf- 
fer him,  though  but  slightly,  to  increase.  It  was  a  detached 
and  small  building,  standing  a  little  from  the  road  ;  and  Wal- 
ter paused  for  some  moments  at  the  garden-gate,  and  gazed 
round  him  before  he  followed  his  young  guide,  who,  tripping 
lightly  up  the  gravel-walk  to  the  door,  rang  the  bell,  and  in- 
quired if  Miss  Lester  was  within  ? 

Walter  was  left  for  some  moments  alone  in  a  little  parlor : 
he  required  those  moments  to  recover  himself  from  the  past 
that  rushed  sweepingly  over  him.  And  was  it — yes,  it  was 
Ellinor  that  now  stood  before  him  !  Changed  she  was,  indeed  ; 
the  slight  girl  had  budded  into  woman  ;  changed  she  was,  indeed  ; 
the  bound  had  forever  left  that  step,  once  so  elastic  with  hope  ; 
the  vivacity  of  the  quick,  dark  eye  was  soft  and  quiet ;  the  rich 


EUGENE     ARAM.  375 

color  had  given  place  to  a  hue  fainter,  though  not  less  lovely. 
But  to  repeat  in  verse  what  is  poorly  bodied  forth  in  prose  : 

"  And  years  had  past,  and  thus  they  met  again  ; 
The  wind  had  swept  along  the  flower  since  then  ; 
O'er  her  fair  cheek  a  paler  lustre  spread, 
As  if  the  white  rose  triumph'd  o'er  the  red. 
No  more  she  walk'd  exulting  on  the  air  ; 
Light  though  her  step,  there  was  a  languor  there  ; 
No  more — her  spirit  bursting  from  its  bound, — 
She  stood,  like  Hebe,  scattering  smiles  around." 

"  Ellinor?"  said  Walter  mournfully,  "  thank  God  !  we  meet 
at  last." 

"That  voice — that  face — my  cousin — my  dear,  dear  Walter  !  " 

All  reserve,  all  consciousness,  fled  in  the  delight  of  that  mo- 
ment ;  and  Ellinor  leaned  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
scarcely  felt  the  kiss  that  he  pressed  upon  her  lips. 

"  And  so  long  absent !  "  said  Ellinor  reproachfully. 

"  But  did  you  not  tell  me  that  the  blow  that  had  fallen  on 
our  house  had  stricken  from  you  all  thoughts  of  love — had  di- 
vided us  forever  ?  And  what,  Ellinor,  was  England  or  home 
without  you  ?" 

"Ah]"  said  Ellinor,  recovering  herself,  and  a  deep  pale- 
ness succeeding  to  the  warm  and  delighted  flush,  that  had  been, 
conjured  to  her  cheek,  "  do  not  revive  the  past ;  I  have  sought 
for  years — long,  solitary,  desolate  years — to  escape  from  its 
dark  recollections  !  " 

"You  speak  wisely,  dearest  Ellinor  ;  let  us  assist  each  other 
in  doing  so.  We  are  alone  in  the  world — let  us  unite  our  lots. 
Never,  through  all  I  have  seen  and  felt, — in  the  starry  night- 
watch  of  camps — in  the  blaze  of  courts — by  the  sunny  groves 
of  Italy — in  the  deep  forests  of  the  Hartz — never  have  I  for- 
gotten you,  my  sweet  and  dear  cousin.  Your  image  has  linked 
itself  indissolubly  with  all  1  conceived  of  home  and  happi- 
ness, and  a  tranquil  and  peaceful  future  ;  and  now  I  return, 
and  see  you,  and  find  you  changed,  but  oh,  how  lovely  !  Ah, 
let  us  not  part  again  !  A  consoler,  a  guide,  a  soother,  father, 
brother,  husband, — all  this  my  heart  whispers  I  could  be  to  you!" 

Ellinor  turned  away  her  face,  but  her  heart  was  very  full. 
The  solitary  years  that  had  passed  over  her  since  they  last 
met  rose  up  before  her.  The  only  living  image  that  had 
mingled  through  those  years  with  the  dreams  of  the  departed, 
was  his  who  now  knelt  at  her  feet ;  her  sole  friend — her  sole 
relative — her  first — her  last  love  !  Of  all  the  world,  he  was 
the  only  one  with  whom  she  could  recur  to  the  past;  on  whom 


3?6  EUGENE     ARAM. 

she  might  repose  her  bruised,  but  still  unconquered  affections. 
And  Walter  knew  by  that  blush — that  sigh — that  -tear,  that  he 
was  remembered — that  he  was  beloved — that  his  cousin  was 
his  own  at  last  ! 

"  But  before  you  end,"  said  my  friend,  to  whom  I  showed 
the  above  pages,  originally  concluding  my  tale  with  the  last 
sentence,  "you  must, — it  is  a  comfortable  and  orthodox  old 
fashion, — tell  us  a  little  about  the  fate  of  the  other  persons 
to  whom  you  have  introduced  us  : — the  wretch  Houseman  ?  " 

''True;  in  the  mysterious  course  of  mortal  affairs,  the 
greater  villain  had  escaped,  the  more  generous  fallen.  But 
though  Houseman  died  without  violence — died  in  his  bed,  as 
honest  men  die — we  can  scarcely' believe  that  his  life  was  not 
punishment  enough.  He  lived  in  strict  seclusion — the  seclu- 
sion of  poverty — and  maintained  himself  by  dressing  flax.  His 
life  was  several  times  attempted  by  the  mob,  for  he  was  an 
object  of  universal  execration  and  horror ;  and  even  ten  years 
afterwards,  when  he  died,  his  body  was  buried  in  secret  at 
the  dead  of  night,  for  the  hatred  of  the  world  survived  him  !  " 

"  And  the  corporal,  did  he  marry  in  his  old  age  ?  " 

"  History  telleth  of  one  Jacob  Bunting,  whose  wife,  several 
years  younger  than  himself,  played  him  certain  sorry  pranks 
with  a  rakish  squire  in  the  neighborhood  :  the  said  Jacob 
knowing  nothing  thereof,  but  furnishing  great  oblectation  unto 
his  neighbors  by  boasting  that  he  turned  an  excellent  penny 
by  selling  poultry  to  his  honor  above  market  prices, — '  For 
Bessy,  my  girl,  I'm  a  man  of  the  world — augh  ? ' ' 

"  Contented  !  a  suitable  fate  for  the  old  dog.  But  Peter 
Dealtry  ?  " 

"Of  Peter  Dealtry  know  we  nothing  more,  save  that  we  have 
seen  at  Grassdale  churchyard  a  small  tombstone  inscribed  to 
his  memory,  with  the  following  sacred  posy  thereto  appended  : 

'  We  flourish,  saith  the  holy  text, 
One  hour,  and  are  cut  down  the  next : 
I  was  like  grass  but  yesterday, 
But  Death  has  mowed  me  into  hay.'  "  * 

"And  his  namesake,  Sir  Peter  Grindlescrew  Hales?" 

"  Went  through  a  long  life,  honored  and  respected,  but  met 
with  domestic  misfortunes  in  old  age.  His  eldest  son  married 
a  servant-maid,  and  his  youngest  daughter — 

"  Eloped  with  the  groom  ?  " 

"  By  no  means  :  with  a  young  spendthrift — the  very  picture 

*  Verbatim. 


EUGENE      ARAM. 


377 


of  what  Sir  Peter  was  in  his  youth.  They  were  both  struck 
out  of  their  father's  will,  and  Sir  Peter  died  in  the  arms  of  his 
eight  remaining  children,  seven  of  whom  never  forgave  his 
memory  for  not  being  the  eighth,  viz.,  chief  heir." 

"And  his  contemporary,  John  Courtland,  the  non  hypo- 
chondriac ?" 

"  Died  of  sudden  suffocation,  as  he  was  crossing  Hounslow 
Heath." 

"But  Lord ?" 

"  Lived  to  a  great  age  ;  his  last  days,  owing  to  growing 
infirmities,  were  spent  out  of  the  world  ;  every  one  pitied 
htm, — it  was  the  happiest  time  of  his  life  !  " 

"  Dame  Darkmans  ?  " 

"Was  found  dead  in  her  bed ;  from  over-fatigue  it  was  sup- 
posed, in  making  merry  at  the  funeral  of  a  young  girl  on  the 
previous  day." 

"Well ! — hem, — and  so  Walter  and  his  cousin  are  really  mar- 
ried !  And  did  they  never  return  to  the  old  manor-house  ?  " 

"  No ;  the  memory  that  is  allied  only  to  melancholy  grows 
sweet  with  years,  and  hallows  the  spot  which  it  haunts  ;  not  so 
the  memory  allied  to  dread,  terror,  and  something  too  of 
shame.  Walter  sold  the  property  with  some  pangs  of  natural 
regret  ;  after  his  marriage  with  Ellinor  he  returned  abroad  for 
some  time,  but  finally  settling  in  England,  engaged  in  active 
life,  and  left  to  his  posterity  a  name  they  still  honor  ;  and  to 
his  country,  the  memory  of  some  services  that  will  not  lightly 
pass  away. 

"  But  one  dread  and  gloomy  remembrance  never  forsook  his 
mind,  and  exercised  the  most  powerful  influence  over  the  ac- 
tions and  motives  of  his  life.  In  every  emergency,  in  every 
temptation,  there  rose  to  his  eyes  the  fate  of  him  so  gifted,  so 
noble  in  much,  so  formed  for  greatness  in  all  things,  blasted 
by  one  crime — a  crime,  the  offspring  of  bewildered  reason- 
ings— all  the  while  speculating  upon  virtue.  And  that  fate, 
revealing  the  darker  secrets  of  our  kind,  in  which  the  true 
science  of  morals  is  chiefly  found,  taught  him  the  twofold  les- 
son,— caution  for  himself,  and  charity  for  others.  He  knew 
henceforth  that  even  the  criminal  is  not  all  evil ;  the  angel 
within  us  is  not  easily  expelled  ;  it  survives  sin,  ay,  and  many 
sins,  and  leaves  us  sometimes  in  amaze  and  marvel  at  the  good 
that  lingers  round  the  heart  even  of  the  hardiest  offender. 

"  And  Ellinor  clung  with  more  than  revived  affection  to  one 
with  whose  lot  she  was  now  allied.  Walter  was  her  last  tie 
upon  earth,  and  in  him  she  learned,  day  by  day,  more  lavishly 


37<>  EUGENE      ARAM. 

to  treasure  up  her  heart.  Adversity  and  trial  had  ennobled  the 
character  of  both  ;  and  she  who  had  so  long  seen  in  her  cousin 
all  she  could  love,  beheld  now  in  her  husband — all  that  she  could 
venerate  and  admire.  A  certain  religious  fervor,  in  which, 
after  the  calamities  of  her  family,  she  had  indulged,  continued 
with  her  to  the  last ;  but  (softened  by  human  ties,  and  the  re- 
ciprocation of  earthly  duties  and  affections),  it  was  fortunately 
preserved  either  from  the  undue  enthusiasm,  or  the  undue 
austerity,  into  which  it  would  otherwise,  in  all  likelihood,  have 
merged.  What  remained,  however,  uniting  her  most  cheerful 
!  thoughts  with  something  serious,  and  the  happiest  moments  of 
the  present  with  the  dim  and  solemn  forecast  of  the  future, 
elevated  her  nature,  not  depressed,  and  made  itself  visible 
rather  in  tender  than  in  sombre  hues.  And  it  was  sweet,  when 
the  thought  of  Madeline  and  her  father  came  across  her,  to  re- 
cur at  once  for  consolation  to  that  heaven  in  which  she  be- 
lieved their  tears  were  dried,  and  their  past  sorrows  but  a  for- 
gotten dream  !  There  is,  indeed,  a  time  of  life  when  these 
reflections  make  our  chief,  though  a  melancholy  pleasure.  As 
we  grow  older,  and  sometimes  a  hope,  and  sometimes  a  friend, 
vanishes  from  our  path,  the  thought  of  an  immortality  will 
press  itself  forcibly  upon  us  !  and  there,  by  little  and  little,  as 
the  ant  piles  grain  after  grain,  the  garners  of  a  future  suste- 
nance, we  learn  to  carry  our  hopes,  and  harvest,  as  it  were,  our 
wishes. 

"  Our  cousins,  then,  were  happy.  Happy,  for  they  loved  one 
another  entirely  ;  and  on  those  who  do  so  love,  I  sometimes 
think  that,  barring  physical  pain  and  extreme  poverty,  the  ills 
of  life  fall  with  but  idle  malice.  Yes,  they  were  happy  in  spite 
of  the  past  and  in  defiance  of  the  future." 

"  I  am  satisfied,  then,"  said  my  friend, — "  and  your  tale  is 
fairly  done  !  "  

And  now,  reader,  farewell !  If  sometimes,  as  thou  hast  gone 
with  me  to  this,  our  parting  spot,  thou  hast  suffered  thy  com- 
panion to  win  the  mastery  over  thine  interest,  to  flash  now  on 
thy  convictions,  to  touch  now  thy  heart,  to  guide  thy  hope,  to 
excite  thy  terror,  to  gain,  it  may  be,  to  the  sources  of  thy 
tears — then  is  there  a  tie  between  thee  and  me  which  cannot 
readily  be  broken  !  And  when  thou  nearest  the  malice  that 
wrongs  affect  the  candor  which  should  judge,  shall  he  not  find 
in  thy  sympathies  the  defence,  or  in  thy  charity  the  indul* 
gence, — of  a  friend  ? 

THE    END. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


In  the  preface  to  this  novel  it  was  stated  that  the  original  intention  of    its  Author  was 
to  compose,  upon  the  facts  of  Aram's  gloomy  history,  a  tragedy  instead  of  a  romance.     It 


agedy 

some  respects,  materially   from  that   of  the  tale,  although  the  whole  of  what  is  now  pre- 
sented to  the  reader  must  be  considered  merely  as  a  copy  from  the  first  hasty  sketch  of  an 
uncompleted  design. 
November^  1833. 


EUGENE    ARAM, 

A    TRAGEDY. 


ACT  I.     SCENE  I. 

Aram's  Apartment— Books,  Maps,  and  Scientific  Instruments  scattered  around,     in  every- 
thing else  the  appearance  of  the  greatest  poverty. 

1st  Creditor  (behind  the  scenes). — I  must  be  paid.     Three  moons  have 

flitted  since 
You  pledged  your  word  to  me. 

zd  Cred.  And  me  ! 

3</  Cred.  And  me  ! 

Aram  (entering).     Away,  I  tell  ye  !     Will  ye  rend  my  garb? 
Away  !  to-morrow. — Gentle  sirs,  to-morrow. 

1st  Cred.     This  is  your  constant  word. 

2d  Cred.  We'll  wait  no  more. 

Aram.     Ye'll  wait  no  more  ?     Enough  !    be  seated,  sirs. 
Pray  ye,  be  seated.     Well  !  with  searching  eyes 
Ye  do  survey  these  walls  !     Contain  they  aught — 
Nay,  take  your  leisure — to  annul  your  claims  ? 

( Turning  to  1st  Cred.}  See,  sir,  yon  books — they're  yours,  if  you  but  tea? 
That  fragment  of  spoiled  paper — be  not  backward, 
I  give  them  with  good  will.     This  one  is  Greek  ; 
A  golden  work — sweet  sir — a  golden  work  ; 
It  teaches  us  to  bear — what  I  have  borne  ! — 
And  to  forbear  men's  ills,  as  you  have  done. 

1st  Cred.     You  mock  me.     Well — 

Aram.  Mock  !  mock  !     Alas  !  my  friend, 

Do  rags  indulge  in  jesting  ?     Fie,  sir,  fie  ! 

(Turning  to  id  Cred.}     You  will  not  wrong  me  so?    On  your  receipt 
Take  this  round  orb  ;  it  miniatures  the  world, — 
And  in  its  study  I  forgot  the  world  ! 

379 


380  EUGENE      ARAM  I 

Take  this,  yon  table  ;  a  poor  scholar's  fare 

Needs  no  such  proud  support  ;  yon  bed,  too  !     (Sleep 

Is  Night's  sweet  angel,  leading  fallen  Man 

Thro'  yielding  airs  to  Youth's  lost  paradise  ; 

But  Sleep  and  I  have  quarrell'd) — take  it,  sir  ! 

zd  Cred.  (muttering  to  the  others').     Come,  we  must  leave  him  to  the  law, 

or  famine. 
You  see  his  goods  were  costly  at  a  groat  ! 

ist  Cred.     Well,  henceforth  I  will  grow  more  wise  !     'Tis  said 
Learning  is  better  than  a  house  or  lands. 
Let  me  be  modest !     Learning  shall  go  free  ; 
Give  me  security  in  house  and  lands. 

3</  Cred.  (lingering  after  the  other  two  depart,  offers  a  piece  of  money  to 

Aram).     There,  man  ;  I  came  to  menace  you  with  law 
And  gaols.     You're  poorer  than  I  thought  you  ! — there — 

Aram  (looking  at  the  money).     What  !  and  a  beggar,  too  !     'Tis  mighty 

well. 

Good  sir,  I'm  grateful — I  will  not  refuse  you  ; 
'Twill  win  back  Plato  from  the  crabbed  hands 
Of  him  who  lends  on  all  things.     Thank  you,  sir  ; 
Plato  and  I  will  thank  you. 

3</  Cred.  Crazed,  poor  scholar  I 

I'll  take  my  little  one  from  school  this  day  ! 


SCENE  II. 

Aram.     Rogues  thrive  in  ease  ;  and  fools  grow  rich  with  toil ; 
Wealth's  wanton  eye  on  Wisdom  coldly  dwells, 
And  turns  to  dote  upon  the  green  youth,  Folly — 

0  life,  vile  life,  with  what  soul-lavish  love 

We  cling  to  thee — when  all  thy  charms  are  fled — 

Yea,  the  more  foul  thy  withering   aspect  grows 

The  steadier  burns  our  passion  to  possess  thee. 

To  die  :  ay,  there's  the  cure — the  plashing  stream 

That  girds  these  walls — the  drug  of  the  dank  weeds 

That  rot  the  air  below  ;  these  hoard  the  balm 

For  broken,  pining,  and  indignant  hearts. 

But  the  witch  Hope  forbids  me  to  be  wise  ; 

And,  when  I  turn  to  these,  Woe's  only  friends —  [Pointing  to  his  books. 

And  with  their  weird  and  eloquent  voices,  soothe 

The  lulled  Babel  of  the  world  within, 

1  can  but  dream  that  my  vex'd  years  at  last 
Shall  find  the  quiet  of  a  hermit's  cell, 

And  far  from  men's  rude  malice  or  low  scorn, 

Beneatli  the  loved  gaze  of  the  lambent  stars  ; 

And  with  the  hollow  rocks,  and  sparry  caves, 

And  mystic  waves,  and  music-murmuring  winds — 

My  oracles  and  co-mates — watch  my  life 

Glide  down  the  stream  of  knowledge,  and  behold 

Its  waters  with  a  musing  stillness  glass 

The  smiles  of  Nature  and  the  eves  of  Heaven  ! 


A    TRAGEDY.  381 

SCENE  III. 

Inter  BOTELER  slowly  watching  him ;   as  he  remains  silent  and  in   thought,  BOTELER 
touches  htm  on  the  shoulder. 

Bottler.     How  now  !  what  !  gloomy  ?  and  the  day  so  bright ! 
Why,  the  old  dog  that  guards  the  court  below 
Hath  crept  out  from  his  wooden  den,  and  shakes 
His  gray  hide  in  the  fresh  and  merry  air  ; 
Tuning  his  sullen  and  suspicious  bark 
Into  a  whine  of  welcome  as  I  pass'd. 
Come,  rouse  thee,  Aram  ;  let  us  forth. 

Aram.  Nay,  friend, 

My  spirit  lackeys  not  the  moody  skies, 
Nor  changes — bright  or  darkling — with  their  change. 
Farewell,  good  neighbor ;  I  must  work  this  day  ; 
Behold  my  tools — and  scholars  toil  alone  ! 

Bottler.     Tush  !  a  few  minutes  wasted  upon  me 
May  well  be  spared  from  this  long  summer  day. 
Hast  heard  the  news  ?     Monson  ?— thou  know'st  the  man  ? 

Aram.     I  do  remember.     He  -was  poor.     I  knew  him. 

Bottler.     But  he  is  poor  no  more.     The  all-changing  wheel 
Roll'd  round,  and  scatter'd  riches  on  his  hearth. 
A  distant  kinsman,  while  he  lived,  a  niggard, 
Generous  in  death  hath  left  his  grateful  heir    . 
In  our  good  neighbor.     Why,  you  seem  not  glad  ; 
Does  it  not  please  you  ? 

Aram.  Yes. 

Boteler.  And  so  it  should  ; 

'Tis  a  poor  fool,  but  honest.     Had  dame  Fate 
Done  this  for  you — for  me — 'tis  true  our  brains 
Had  taught  us  belter  how  to  spend  the  dross  ; 
But  earth  hath  worse  men  than  our  neighbor. 

Aram.  Ay, 

"  Worse  men  !  "  it  may  be  so  ! 

Boteler.  Would  I  were  rich  ! 

What  loyal  service,  what  complacent  friendship, 
What  gracious  love  upon  the  lips  of  Beauty, 
Bloom  into  life  beneath  the  beams  of  gold. 
Venus  and  Bacchus,  the  bright  Care-dispellers, 
Are  never  seen  but  in  the  train  of  Fortune. 
Would  I  were  rich  ! 

Aram.  Shame  on  thy  low  ambition  ! 

Would  /were  rich,  too, — but  for  other  aims. 
Oh  !  what  a  glorious  and  time-hallow'd  world 
Would  I  invoke  around  me  :  and  wall  in 
A  haunted  solitude  with  those  bright  souls, 
That,  with  a  still  and  warning  aspect,  gaze 
Upon  us  from  the  hallowing  sh-oud  of  books  ! 
By  Heaven,  there  should  not  be  a  seer  who  left 
The  world  one  doctrine,  but  I'd  task  his  lore. 
And  commune  with  his  spirit  !     All  the  truths 
Of  all  the  tongues  of  earth — I'd  have  them  all, 
Had  I  the  golden  spell  to  raise  their  ghosts  ! 
I'd  build  me  domes,  too  ;  from  whose  giddy  height 


382  EUGENE      ARAM  : 

My  soul  would  watch  the  night  stars,  and  unsphere 

The  destinies  of  man,  or  track  the  ways 

Of  God  from  world  to  world  ;  pursue  the  winds, 

The  clouds  that  womb  the  thunder — to  their  home  ; 

Invoke  and  conquer  Nature — share  her  throne 

On  earth,  and  ocean,  and  the  chainless  air  ; 

And  on  the  Titan  fabrics  of  old  truths 

Raise  the  bold  spirit  to  a  height  with  heaven  ! 

Would — would  my  life  might  boast  one  year  of  wealth 

Though  death  should  bound  it ! 

Bottler.  Thou  may'st  have  thy  wish  ! 

Aram  (rapt,  and  abstractedly).     Who    spoke  ?     Methought  I  heard   m> 

genius  say — 
My  evil  genius — '•  Thou  may'st  have  thy  wish  !  " 

Boteler.     Thou  heard'st  aright  !     Monson  this  eve  will  pass 
By  Nid's  swift  wave  ;  he  bears  his  gold  with  him ; 
The  spot  is  lone — untenanted — remote  ; 
And,  if  thou  hast  but  courage, — one  bold  deed, 
And  one  short  moment — thou  art  poor  no  more  ! 

Aram  (after  a  pause,  turning  his  eyes  slowly  on  Boteler).     Boteler,  was 
that  thy  voice  ? 

Boteler.  How  couldst  thou  doubt  it  ? 

Aram.     Methought  its  tone  seemed  changed  ;  and  now  methinks, 
Now,  that  I  look  upon  thy  face,  my  eyes 
Discover  not  its  old  familiar  aspect. 
Thou'rt  very  sure  thy  name  is  Boteler  ? 

Boteler.  Pshaw, 

Thou'rt  dreaming  still  : — awake,  and  let  thy  mind 
And  heart  drink  all  I  breathe  into  thy  ear. 
I  know  thee,  Aram,  for  a  man  humane, 
Gentle,  and  musing  ;  but  withal  of  stuff 
That  might  have  made  a  warrior  ;  and  desires, 
Though  of  a  subtler  nature  than  my  own, 
As  high,  and  hard  to  limit.     Care  and  want 
Have  made  thee  what  they  made  thy  friend  long  since. 
And  when  I  wound  my  heart  to  a  resolve, 
Dangerous,  but  fraught  with  profit,  I  did  fix 
On  thee  as  one  whom  Fate  and  Nature  made 
A  worlhy  partner  in  the  nameless  deed. 

Aram.     Go  on.     I  pray  thee  pause  not. 

Boteler.  There  remain 

Few  words  to  body  forth  my  full  design. 
Know  that — at  my  advice — this  eve  the  gull'd 
And  credulous  fool  of  Fortune  quits  his  home. 
Say  but  one  word,  and  thou  shalt  share  with  me 
The  gold  he  bears  about  him. 

Aram.  At  what  price  ? 

Boteler.     A  little  courage. 

Aram.  And  my  soul ! — No  more* 

I  see  your  project — 

Boteler.  And^embrace  it? 

Aram.  Lo ! 

How  many  deathful,  dread,  and  ghastly  snares 
Encompass  him  whom  the  stark  hunger  gnaws, 


A    TRAGEDY.  383 

And  the  grim  demon  Penury  shuts  from  out 

The  golden  Eden  of  his  bright  desires  ! 

To-day,  I  thought  to  slay  myself,  and  die. 

No  single  hope  once  won  ! — and  now  I  hear 

Dark  words  of  blood,  and  quail  not,  nor  recoil.— 

'Tis  but  a  death  in  either  case, — or  mine 

Or  that  poor  dotard's  !     And  the  guilt — the  guilt,— 

Why,  what  is  guilt  ?    A  word  !     We  are  the  tools, 

From  birth  to  death,  of  destiny  ;  and  shaped, 

For  sin  or  virtue,  by  the  iron  forge 

Of  the  unseen,  but  unresisted,  hands 

Of  Fate,  the  august  compeller  of  the  world. 

Boteler  (aside). — It  works.     Behold  the  devil  at  all  hearts  J 
I  am  a  soldier,  and  inured  to  blood  ; 
But  he  hath  lived  with  moralists  forsooth. 
And  yet  one  word  to  tempt  him,  and  one  sting 
Of  the  food-craving  clay,  and  the  meek  sage 
Grasps  at  the  crime  be  shuddered  at  before. 

Aram  (abruptly).     Thou  hast  broke  thy  fast  this  morning. 

Bottler.  Ay,  in  truth. 

Aram.     But  /have  not  since  yestermorn,  and  ask'd 
In  the  belief  that  certain  thoughts  unwont 
To  blacken  the  still  mirror  of  my  mind 
Might  be  the  phantoms  of  the  sickening  flesh 
And  the  faint  nature.     I  was  wrong  ;  since  you 
Shaie  the  same  thoughts,  nor  suffer  the  same  ills. 

Boteler.     Indeed,  I  knew  not  this.     Come  to  my  roof : 
'Tis  poor,  but  not  so  bare  as  to  deny 
A  soldier's  viands  to  a  scholar's  wants. 
Come,  and  we'll  talk  this  over.     I  perceive 
That  your  bold  heart  already  is  prepared, 
And  the  details  alone  remain.     Come,  friend, 
Lean  upon  me,  for  you  seem  weak  ;  the  air 
Will  breathe  this  languor  into  health. 

Aram.  Your  hearth 

Is  widow'd, — we  shall  be  alone  ? 

Bate  let .  Alone. 

Aram.     Come,  then, — the  private  way.     We'll  shun  the  crowd. 
I  do  not  love  the  insolent  eyes  of  men. 

***** 

SCENE  IV. 

(Night — a  wild  and  gloomy  Forest — the  River  at  a  Distance.) 
Enter  ARAM  slowly. 

Aram.     Were  it  but  done,  methinks  'twould  scarce  bequeath 
Much  food  for  that  dull  hypocrite  Remorse. 
Tis  a  fool  less  on  earth  ! — a  clod — a  grain 
From  the  o'er-rich  creation  ; — be  it  so. 
But  I,  in  one  brief  year,  could  give  to  men 
More  solid,  glorious,  undecaying  good 
Than  his  whole  life  could  purchase  : — yet  without 
The  pitiful  and  niggard  dross  he  wastes, 


384  EUGENE     ARAM  : 

And  /  for  lacking  starve,  my  power  is  nought, 

And  the  whole  good  undone  !     Where,  then,  the  crime, 

Though  by  dread  means,  to  compass  that  bright  end? 

And  yet — and  yet — I  falter,  and  my  flesh 

Creeps,  and  the  horror  cf  a  ghastly  thought 

Makes  stiff  my  hand, — my  blood  is  cold, — my  knees 

Do  smite  each  other — and  throughout  my  frame 

Stern  manhood  melts  away.     Blow  forth,  sweet  air, 

Brace  the  mute  nerves, — release  the  gathering  ice 

That  curdles  up  my  veins, — call  forth  the  soul, 

That,  with  a  steady  and  unfailing  front, 

Hath  looked  on  want,  and  woe,  and  early  death — 

And  walk'd  with  thee,  sweet  air,  upon  thy  course 

Away  from  earth  through  the  rejoicing  heaven  ! 

Who  moves  there  ?     Speak  !  — who  art  thou  ? 

SCENE  V. 

Enter  BOTELER. 

Boteler.  Murdoch  Boteler ! 

Hast  thou  forestall'd  me  ?    Come,  this  bodeth  well : 
It  proves  thy  courage,  Aram. 

Aram.  Rather  say 

The  restless  fever  that  doth  spur  us  on 
From  a  dark  thought  unto  a  darker  deed. 

Boteler.     He  should  have  come  ere  this. 

Aram.  I  pray  thee,  Botelers 

Is  it  not  told  of  some  great  painter — whom 
Rome  bore,  and  earth  yet  worships — that  he  slew 
A  man — a  brother  man — and  without  ire, 
But  with  cool  heart  and  hand,  that  he  might  fix 
His  gaze  upon  the  wretch's  dying  pangs  ; 
And  by  them  learn  what  mortal  throes  to  paint 
On  the  wrung  features  of  a  suffering  God  ? 

Boteler.     Ay  :  I  have  heard  the  tale. 

Aram.  And  he  ishonor'd. 

Men  vaunt  his  glory,  but  forget  his  guilt. 
They  see  the  triumph  ;  nor,  with  wolfish  tongues, 
Feed  on  the  deed  from  which  the  triumph  grew. 
Is  it  not  so  ? 

Boteler.         Thou  triflest :  this  is  no  hour 
For  the  light  legends  of  a  gossip's  lore — 

Aram.     Peace,  man  !     I  did  but  question  of  the  fact. 
Enough. — I  marvel  why  our  victim  lingers? 

Boteler.     Hush  !  dost  thou  hear  no  footstep?    Ha,  he  comes  ! 
I  see  him  by  yon  pine-tree.     Look,  he  smiles  ; 
Smiles  as  he  walks,  and  sings — 

Aram.  Alas  !  poor  fool  ! 

So  sport  we  all,  while  over  us  the  pall 
Hangs,  and  Fate's  viewless  hands  prepare  our  shroud. 

SCENE  VI. 

Writer  MONSON 

Monson,     Ye  have  not  waited,  sirs  ? 


A    TRAGEDY.  385 

Bottler.  Nay,  name  it  not. 

Monsoti.     The  nights  are  long  and  bright :  an  hour  the  less 
Makes  little  discount  from  the  time. 

Aram.  An  hour  I 

What  deeds  an  hour  may  witness  ! 

Monson.  It  is  true. 

( To  Bottler.} — Doth  he  upbraid  ? — he  has  a  gloomy  brow : 
I  like  him  not. 

Boteler.  The  husk  hides  goodly  fruit. 

'Tis  a  deep  scholar,  Monson  ;  and  the  gloom 
Is  not  of  malice,  toil  of  learned  thought. 

Monson .     Say'st  thou  ? — I  love  a  scholar.     Let  us  on  : 
We  will  not  travel  far  to-n  ght  ? 

Aram.  Not  far  I 

Boteler.     Why.  as  our  limbs  avail  ;  thou  hast  the  gold  ? 

Monson.     Ay,  and  my  wife  suspects  not.  [Laughing. 

Boteler.  Come,  that's  well. 

I'm  an  old  soldier,  Monson,  and  I  love 
This  baffling  of  the  Church's  cankering  ties. 
We'll  find  thee  other  wives,  my  friend  !     Who  holds 
The  golden  lure  shall  have  no  lack  of  loves. 

Monson.     Ha  !  ha  ! — both  wise  and  merry. — (To  Aram.) — Come,  sir,  on- 

Aram.     I  follow. 

(Aside.) — Can  men  sin  thus  in  a  dream  ? 
*  *  *  #  * 


SCENE  VII. 

Scene  changes  to  a  different  part  of  the  Forest— a  Cave,  overhung  with  firs  and  other 
trees — the  Moon  is  at  her  full,  but  Clouds  are  rolling  swiftly  over  her  disc — ARAM 
rushes  from  the  Cavern. 

Aram.     'Tis  done  ! — 'tis  done— 'tis  done  ! — 

A  life  is  gone 

Out  of  a  crowded  world  !     /  struck  no  more  ! 
Oh,  God  ! — I  did  not  slay  him  ! — 'twas  not  // 

Enter  BOTELER  more  slowly  from  the  Cave,  and  looking  round. 

BoteUr.     Why  didst  thou  leave  me  ere  our  task  was  o'er  ? 

Aram.     Was  he  not  dead,  then  ? — Did  he  breathe  again  ? 
Or  cry,  "  Help,  help?" — /did  not  strike  the  blow  ! 

Boteler.     Dead  ! — and  no  witness,  save  the  blinded  bat  ! 
But  the  gold,  Aram  !  thou  didst  leave  the  gold  ? 

Aram.     The  gold  !     I  had  forgot.      Thou  hast  the  gold. 
Come,  let  us  share,  and  part — 

Boteler.  Not  here  ;  the  spot 

Is  open,  and  the  rolling  moon  may  light 
Some  wanderer's  footsteps  hither.     To  the  deeps 
Which  the  stars  pierce  not — of  the  inmo-t  wooH — 
We  will  withdraw  and  share — and  weave  our  plans, 
So  that  the  world  may  know  not  of  this  deed. 

Aram.     Thou  sayest  well  !     I  did  not  strike  the  blow  I 
How  red  the  moon  looks  !  le'.  us  hide  from  her  ! 


386  EUGENE     ARAM  : 

ACT  II. 

(Time,  Ten  Years  after  the  date  of  the  first  Act.) 

SCENE  I. 

Peasants  dancing— A  beautiful  Wood  Scene — A  Cottage  in  the  front. 

MADELINE — LAMBOURN — MICHAEL. 

(LAMBOURN  comes  forward.) 

COME,  my  sweet  Madeline,  though  our  fate  denies 
The  pomp  by  which  the  great  and  wealthy  mark 
The  white  days  of  their  lot,  at  least  thy  sire 
Can  light  with  joyous  faces  and  glad  hearts 
The  annual  morn  which  brought  so  fair  a  boon, 
And  blest  his  rude  hearth  with  a  child  like  thee. 

Madeline.     My  father,  my  dear  father,  since  that  morn 
The  sun  hath  call'd  from  out  the  depth  of  time 
The  shapes  of  twenty  summers  ;  and  no  hour 
That  did  not  own  to  Heaven  thy  love — thy  care  ! 

Lambourn.     Thou  hast  repaid  me  ;  and  mine  eyes  o'erflow 
With  tears  that  tell  thy  virtues,  my  sweet  child  ; 
For  ever  from  thy  cradle  thou  wert  fill'd 
With  meek  and  gentle  thought  ;  tliy  step  was  soft 
And  thy  voice  tender  ;  and  within  thine  eyes, 
And  on  thy  cloudless  brow,  lay  deeply  glass'd 
The  quiet  and  the  beauty  of  thy  soul. 
As  thou  didst  grow  in  years,  the  love  and  power 
Of  nature  wax'd  upon  thee  ;  thou  wouldst  pore 
On  the  sweet  stillness  of  the  summer  hills, 
Or  the  hushed  face  of  waters,  as  a  book 
Where  God  had  written  beauty  ;  and  in  turn 
Books  grew  to  thee,  as  Nature's  page  had  grown, 
And  study  and  lone  musing  nursed  thy  youth  ; 
Yet  wert  thou  ever  woman  in  thy  mood, 
And  soft,  though  serious  ;  nor  in  abstract  thought 
Lost  household  zeal,  or  the  meek  cares  of  love. 
Bless  thee,  my  child.     Thou  look'st  around  for  one 
To  chase  the/a&r  rose  from  that  pure  cheek, 
And  the  vague  sadness  from  those  loving  eyes. 
Nay,  turn  not,  Madeline,  for  I  know,  in  truth, 
No  man  to  whom  I  would  so  freely  give 
Thy  hand  as  his — no  man  so  full  of  wisdom, 
And  yet  so  gentle  in  his  bearing  of  it  ; 
No  man  so  kindly  in  his  thoughts  of  others — 
So  rigid  of  all  virtues  in  himself  ; 
As  this  same  learned  wonder,  Eugene  Aram. 

Madeline.     In  sooth  his  name  sounds  lovelier  for  thy  praise. 
Would  he  were  by  to  hear  it !  for  methinks 
His  nature  given  too  much  to  saddening  thought, 
And  words  like  thine  would  cheer  it.     Oft  he  starts 
And  mutters  to  himself,  and  folds  his  arms, 
And  traces  with  keen  eyes  the  empty  air  ; 
Then  shakes  his  head,  and  smiles— no  happy  smile  ! 


A    TRAGEDY.  387 

Lambourn.     It  is  the  way  with  students,  for  they  live 
In  an  ideal  world,  and  people  this 
With  shadows  thrown  from  fairy  forms  afar. 
Fear  not ! — ihy  love,  like  some  fair  morn  of  May, 
Shall  chase  the  dreams  in  clothing  earth  with  beauty. 
But  the  noon  wanes,  and  yet  he  does  not  come. 
Neighbors,  has  one  amongst  you  seen  this  day 
The  scholar  Aram  ? 

Michael.  By  the  hoary  oak 

That  overhangs  the  brook,  I  mark'd  this  morn 
A  bending  figure,  motionless  and  lonely. 
I  near'd  it,  but  it  heard — it  saw  me — not  ; 
It  spoke — I  listen'd — and  it  said,  "Ye  leaves 
That  from  the  old  and  changeful  branches  fall 
Upon  the  waters,  and  are  borne  away, 
Whither  none  know,  ye  are  men's  worthless  lives  ; 
Nor  boots  it  whether  ye  drop  off  by  time, 
Or  the  rude  anger  of  some  violent  wind 
Scatter  ye  ere  your  hour.     Amidst  the  mass 
Of  your  green  life,  who  misses  one  lost  leaf  ?  " 
He  said  no  more  ;  then  I  did  come  beside 
The  speaker  :  it  was  Aram. 

Madeline  (aside).  Moody  ever  ! 

And  yet  he  says,  he  loves  me  and  is  happy  ! 

Michael.     But  he  seem'd  gall'd  and  sore  at  my  approach  ; 
And  when  I  told  him  I  was  hither  bound, 
And  ask'd  if  aught  I  should  convey  from  him, 
He  frown'd,  and  coldly  turning  on  his  heel, 
Answer'd — that  "he  should  meet  me."     I  was  pain'd 
To  think  that  I  had  vex'd  so  good  a  man. 

1st  Neighbor.     Ay,  he  is  good  as  wise.     All  men  love  Aram. 

zd  Neighbor.     And  with  what  justice  !     My  old  dame's  complaint 
Had  baffled  all  the  leeches  ;  but  his  art, 
From  a  few  simple  herbs,  distill'd  a  spirit 
Has  made  her  young  again. 

3<f  Neighbor.  By  his  advice, 

And  foresight  of  the  seasons,  I  did  till 
My  land,  and  now  my  granaries  scarce  can  hold 
Their  golden  wealth  ;  while  those  who  mock'd  his  words 
Can  scarcely  from  hard  earlh  and  treacherous  air 
Win  aught  to  keep  the  wolf  from  off  their  door. 

Michael.     And  while  he  stoops  to  what  poor  men  should  know, 
They  say  that  in  the  deep  and  secret  lore 
That  scholars  mostly  prize  he  hath  no  peer. 
Old  men,  who  pale  and  care-begone  have  lived 
A  life  amidst  their  books,  will,  at  his  name, 
Lift  up  tlteir  hands  and  cry,  "  The  wondrous  man  !  " 

Lambourn.     His  birthplace  must  thank  Fortune  for  the  fame 
That  he  one  day  will  win  it. 

Michael.  Dost  thou  know 

Whence  Aram  came,  ere  to  these  hamlet  scenes 
Ten  summers  since  he  wander'd  ? 

Lambourn.  Michael,  no! 

'Twas  from  some  distant  nook  of  our  fair  isle. 


388  EUGENE      ARAM  : 

But  he  so  sadly  flies  from  what  hath  chanced 
In  his  more  youthful  life,  and  there  would  seem 
So  much  of  winter  in  those  April  days, 
That  I  have  shunn'd  vain  question  of  the  past. 
Thus  much  I  learn  :  he  hath  no  kin  alive; 
No  parent  to  exult  in  such  a  son. 

Michael.     Poor  soul !     You  spake  of  sadness.     Know  you  why 
So  good  a  man  is  sorrowful  ? 

Lambourn.  Methinks 

lie  hath  been  tried — not  lightly — by  the  sharp 
And  everlasting  curse  to  learning  doom'd 
That  which  poor  labor  bears  without  a  sigh, 
But  whose  mere  breath  can  wither  genius — Want ! 
Want — the  harsh,  hoary  beldame — the  obscene 
Witch  that  hath  power  o'er  brave  men's  thews  and  nerves, 
And  lifts  the  mind  from  out  itself. 

Michael.  Why  think  you 

That  he  hath  been  thus  cross'd  ?     His  means  appear 
Enough,  at  least  for  his  subdued  desires. 

Lambourn.     I'll  tell  thee  wherefore.     Do  but  speak  of  want, 
And  lo  !  he  winces,  and  his  nether  lip 
Quivers  impatient,  and  he  sighs,  and  frowns, 
And  mutters — "  Hunger  is  a  fearful  thing  ; 
And  it  is  terrible  that  man's  high  soul 
Should  be  made  barren  in  its  purest  aims 
By  the  mere  lack  of  the  earth's  yellow  clay." 
Then  will  he  pause — and  pause — and  come  at  last 
And  put  some  petty  moneys  in  my  hand, 
And  cry,  "  Go,  feed  the  wretch  ;  he  must  not  starve, 
Or  he  will  sin.      Men's  throats  are  scarcely  safe, 
While  hunger  prowls  beside  them  !  " 

Michael.  The  kind  man  ! 

But  this  comes  only  from  a  gentle  heart, 
Not  from  a  tried  one. 

Lambourn.  Nay,  not  wholly  so  ; 

For  I  have  heard  him,  as  he  turned  away, 
Mutter,  in  stifled  tones,  "  No  man  can  tell 
What  want  is  in  his  brother  man,  unless 
Want's  self  hath  taught  him, — as  the  fiend  taught  me  ! " 

Michael.     And  hath  he  ne'er  enlarged  upon  these  words, 
Nor  lit  them  into  clearer  knowledge  by 
A  more  pronounced  detail  ? 

Lambourn.  No  ;  nor  have  I 

Much  sought  to  question.     In  my  younger  days 
I  pass'd  much  time  amid  the  scholar  race, 
The  learned  lamps  which  light  the  unpitying  world 
By  their  own  self-consuming.     They  are  proud — 
A  proud  and  jealous  tribe — and  proud  men  loathe 
To  speak  of  former  sufferings  :  most  of  all 
Want's  suffering,  in  the  which  the  bitterest  sting 
Is  in  the  humiliation  ;  therefore  I 
Cover  the  past  with  silence.     But  whate'er 
His  origin  or  early  fate,  there  lives 
None  whom  I  hold  more  dearly,  or  to  whom 


A    TRAGEDY.  389 

My  hopes  so  well  could  trust  my  Madeline's  lot. 

SCENE  II. 

The  Crowd  at  the  back  of  the  Stage  gives  way — ARAM  s]owly  enters — The  neighbors  gree* 
him  with  respect,  several  appear  to  thank  him  for  various  benefits  or  charities.  He  re- 
turns the  greeting  in  dumb  show,  with  great  appearance  of  modesty. 

Aram.     Nay,  nay,  good  neighbors,  ye  do  make  me  blush 
To  think  that  10  so  large  a  store  of  praise 
There  goes  so  poor  desert. — My  Madeline  !      Sweet, 
I  see  thee,  and  all  brightens  ! 

Lambourn.  You  are  late — 

But  not  less  welcome.     On  my  daughter's  birth-day 
You  scarce  should  be  the  last  to  wish  her  joy. 

Aram.     Joy — joy  !     Is  life  so  poor  and  harsh  a  boon 
That  we  should  hail  each  year  that  wears  its  gloss 
And  glory  into  winter?     Shall  we  crown 
With  roses  Time's  bald  temples,  and  rejoice — • 
For  what  ? — that  we  are  hastening  to  the  grave  ? 
No,  no  !     I  cannot  look  on  thy  young  brow, 
Beautiful  Madeline  !  nor,  upon  the  day 
Which  makes  thee  one  year  nearer  unto  Heaven, 
Feel  sad  for  Earth,  whose  very  soul  thou  art  ; 
Or  art,  at  least,  to  me  ? — for  wert  thou  not. 
Earth  would  be  dead  and  wither'd  as  the  clay 
Of  her  own  offspring  when  the  breath  departs. 

Lambourn.     I  scarce  had  thought  a  scholar's  dusty  tomes 
Could  teach  his  lips  the  golden  ways  to  woo. 
Howbeit,  in  all  times,  man  never  learns 
To  love,  nor  learns  to  flatter. 

Well,  my  friends, 

Will  ye  within  ? — our  simple  fare  invites. 
Aram,  when  thou  hast  made  thy  peace  with  Madeline, 
We  shall  oe  glad  to  welcome  thee. — (70  Michael.}     This  love 
Is  a  most  rigid  faster,  and  would  come 
To  a  quick  ending  in  an  epicure. 

[Exeunt  LAMBOURN,  the  Neighbors,  etc. 

SCENE   III. 

MADELINE   and  ARAM. 

Aram.     Alone  with  thee  !     Peace  comes  to  earth  again, 
Beloved  !  would  our  life  could,  like  a  brook 
Watering  a  desert,  glide  unseen  away, 
Murmuring  our  own  heart's  music, — which  is  love. 
And  glassing  only  Heaven, — which  is  love's  life  ! 
I  am  not  made  to  live  among  mankind  ; 
They  stir  dark  memory  from  unwilling  sleep, 
And — but  no  matter.     Madeline,  it  is  s' range 
That  one  like  thee,  for  whom,  methinks,  fair  Love 
Should  wear  its  bravest  and  most  gallant  garb, 
Should  e'er  have  cast  her  heart's  rich  freight  upon 
A  thing  like  me, — not  fashion'd  in  the  mould 
Which  wins  a  maiden's  eye, — austere  of  life, 


390  EUGENE      ARAM  ; 

And  grave  and  sad  of  bearing, — and  so  long 
Inured  to  solitude,  as  to  have  grown 
A  man  that  hath  the  shape,  but  not  the  soul, 
Of  the  world's  inmates. 

Madeline.  'Tis  for  that  I  loved. 

The  world  I  love  not — therefore  I  love  thee  ! 
Come,  shall  I  tell  thee, — 'tis  an  oft-told  tale, 
Yet  never  wearies, — by  what  bright  degrees 
Thy  empire  rose,  till  it  o'erspread  my  soul, 
And  made  my  all  of  being  love  ?     Thou  know'st 
When  first  thou  earnest  into  these  lone  retreats, 
My  years  yet  dwelt  in  childhood  ;  but  my  thoughts 
Went  deeper  than  my  playmates'.     Books  I  loved, 
But  not  the  books  that  woo  a  woman's  heart  ; 
I  loved  not  tales  of  war  and  stern  emprise, 
And  man  let  loose  on  man — dark  deeds,  of  which 
The  name  was  glory,  but  the  nature  crime, — 
Nor  themes  of  vulgar  love — of  maidens'  hearts 
Won  by  small  worth,  set  off  by  gaudy  show  ; 
Those  tales  which  win  the  wilder  heart,  in  me 
Did  move  some  anger  and  a  world  of  scorn. 
AH  that  I  dream'd  of  sympathy  was  given 
Unto  the  lords  of  Mind — the  victor  chiefs 
Of  Wisdom — or  of  Wisdom's  music — Song  ; 
And  as  I  read  of  them,  I  dream'd,  and  drew 
In  my  soul's  colors,  shapes  my  soul  might  love, 
And,  loving,  worship, — they  were  like  10  thee  ! 
Thou  earnest  unknown  and  lonely, — and  around 
Thy  coming,  and  thy  bearing,  and  thy  mood 
Hung  mystery, — and,  in  guessing  at  its  clue, 
Mystery  grew  interest,  and  the  interest  love  ! 

Aram  (aside).     O  woman  !  how  from  that  which  she  should  shun. 
Does  the  poor  trifler  draw  what  charms  her  most  ! 

Madeline.     Then,  as  time  won  thee  frequent  to  our  hearth, 
Thou  fiom  thy  learning's  height  didst  stoop  to  teach  me 
Nature's  more  gentle  secrets — the  sweet  lore 
Of  the  green  herb  and  the  bee-worshipp'd  flower  ; 
And  when  the  night  did  o'er  this  nether  earth 
Distil  meek  quiet,  and  the  heart  of  Heaven 
With  love  grew  breathless,  thou  wert  wont  to  raise 
My  wild  thoughts  to  the  weird  and  solemn  stars  ; 
Tell  of  each  orb  the  courses  and  the  name  ; 
And  of  the  winds,  the  clouds,  th'  invisible  air, 
Make  eloquent  discourse  ;  until  methought 
No  human  life,  but  some  diviner  spirit, 
Alone  could  preach  such  truths  of  things  divine. 
And  so — and  so — 

Aram.  From  heaven  we  turn'd  to  earth, 

And  Thought  did  father  Passion  ?     Gentlest  love  ! 
If  thou  couldst  know  how  hard  it  is  for  one 
Who  takes  such  feeble  pleasure  in  this  earth 
To  worship  aught  earth  born,  thou'dst  learn  how  wild 
The  wonder  of  my  passion  and  thy  power. 
But  ere  three  days  are  past  th uu  wilt  be  mine  ! 


A    TRAGEDY.  3QI 

And  mine  for  ever  !     Oh,  delicious  thought ! 

How  glorious  were  the  future,  could  I  shut 

The  past — the  past — from — Ha  !  what  stirred  ?  didst  hear, 

Madeline, — didst  hear  ? 

Madeline.  Hear  what  ? — the  very  air 

Lies  quiet  as  an  infant  in  its  sleep. 

Aram  (looking  round).     Methought  I  heard — 

Madeline.  What,  love  ? 

Aram.  It  was  a  cheat 

Of  these  poor  fools,  the  senses.     Come,  thy  hand  ; 
I  love  to  feel  thy  touch,  thou  art  so  pure — 
So  soft — so  sacred  in  thy  loveliness, 
That  I  feel  safe  with  thee  !     Great  God  himself 
Would  shun  to  launch  upon  the  brow  of  guilt 
His  bolt  while  thou  wert  by  ! 

Madeline.  Alas,  alas  ! 

Why  dost  thou  talk  of  guilt  ? 

Aram.  Did  I,  sweet  love, 

Did  I  say  guilt  ? — it  is  an  ugly  word. 
Why,  sweet,  indeed — did  I  say  guilt,  my  Madeline? 

Madeline.     In  truth  you  did.     Your  hand  is  dry — the  pulse 
Beats  quick  and  fever'd  :  you  consume  too  much 
Of  life  in  thought — you  over-rack  the  nerves — 
And  thus  a  shadow  bids  them  quail  and  tremble  ; 
But  when  I  queen  it,  Eugene,  o'er  your  home, 
I'll  see  this  fault  amended. 

Aram.  Ay, 

In  sooth  thou  shalt. 

SCENE  IV. 

Enter   MICHAEL. 

Michael.     Friend  Lambourn  sends  his  greeting, 
And  prays  you  to  his  simple  banquet. 

Madeline.  Come ! 

H  is  raciest  wine  will  in  my  father's  cup 
Seem  dim  till  you  can  pledge  him.     Eugene,  come. 

Aram.     And  if  I  linger  o'er  the  draught,  sweet  loye, 
Thou'lt  know  I  do  but  linger  o'er  the  wish 
For  thee,  which  sheds  its  blessing  on  the  bowl. 


SCENE. 

Sunset — a  Wood-scene— a  Cottage  at  a  distance— in   the  foreground  a  Woodman   felling 

wood. 

Enter  ARAM. 

Wise  men  have  praised  the  peasant's  thoughtless  lot. 
And  learned  pride  hath  envi--d  humble  toil : 
If  they  were  right,  why,  let  us  burn  our  books, 
And  sit  us  down,  and  play  the  fool  with  Time, 
Mocking  the  prophet  Wisdom's  grave  decrees, 


392  EUGENE      ARAM. 

And  walling  this  trite  PRESENT  with  dark  clouds, 
Till  night  becomes  our  nature,  and  the  ray 
Ev'n  of  the  stars  but  meteors  that  withdraw 
The  wandering  spirit  from  the  sluggish  rest 
Which  makes  its  proper  bliss.     I  will  accost 
This  denizen  of  toil,  who,  with  hard  hands, 
Prolongs  from  day  to  day  unthinking  life, 
And  ask  if  he  be  happy.     Friend,  good  eve. 

Woodman,     'Tis  the  great  scholar  !     Worthy  sir,  good  eve. 

Aram.     Thou  seem'st  o'erworn  :  through  this  long  summer  day 
Hast  thou  been  laboring  in  the  lonely  glen  ? 

Woodman.     Ay,  save  one  hour  at  noon.     'Tis  weary  work  ; 
But  men  like  me,  good  sir,  must  not  repine 
At  work  which  feeds  the  craving  mouths  at  home. 

Aram.     Then  thou  art  happy,  friend,  and  with  content 
Thy  life  hath  made  a  compact.     Is  it  so  ? 

Woodman.     Why,  as  to  that,  sir,  I  must  surely  feel 
Some  pangs  when  I  behold  the  ease  with  which 
The  wealthy  live  ;  while  I,  through  heat  and  cold, 
Can  scarcely  conquer  Famine. 


In  this  scene  Boteler  (the  Houseman  of  the  novel)  is  again  introduced. 


A'-111™;'"!1"""""! 

A     001  002419     8 


